


Tour of the Western Approach

by nightram



Series: Brienne Lavellan [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cassandra being useless at not nagging, Developing Relationship, F/M, Inquisitor with a prosthetic leg, Journeying from Skyhold on Forces duties, Knight-Enchanter specialised Inquisitor, Lyrium Withdrawals, awkward "did u feel it too" scene, banter around the dinner table, brief shirtless women training, dragon talk, friendly conversation between Cassandra and Cullen, gratuitous LI carrying the Inquisitor, mildly injured Inquisitor, some mundane "in position of authority" stuff like checking in with officers, talking between friends outside of discussing budding romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-03-15 08:21:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 26,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3440222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightram/pseuds/nightram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As strongholds are established across Southern Thedas under the Inquisition's banner, which comes with new duties. The Inquisitor and a chosen party including Commander Cullen are responsible for escourting a new rotation of soldiers to Griffon Wing Keep, located in the Western Approach.</p><p>Whilst away, news arrives concerning Clan Lavellan and the Inquisitor adjusts her plans in response.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Collection of some short and long chapters during the tour, set before Halamshiral and Adamant. Set after the chess match and before the first kiss. I want to try and keep all the characters involved; genuine friendly discussions between party members, not exclusively romance-centric but will probably end up as such. Originally unintended, but this will also carry into the Help Clan Lavellan war table mission.

The Red Hart shifted as Inquisitor Lavellan tightened the leather saddle around its girth. Running worn fingers along the auburn hide, she moved on to checking the ties on her bedroll, stave and supplies. She definitely didn’t need to lose half her rations again mid-way down the summit thanks to a shoddy knot.

“Inquisitor. Varric and myself have finished preparing.” Cassandra approached on foot with her reigns in hand. “Dorian should not be far behind.” She says his name pointedly; a barely tempered sneer.

“Are the troops ready to move out?” Lavellan buckles the final strap on her Hart’s bridle. The Commander’s distinct shouting from beyond Skyhold’s walls is hushed in the snowed wind.

Cassandra places her gloved hand on the snout of her thoroughbred before moving to mount the steed. The Inquisitor flashes her a smile. “Marching orders have been issued. Commander Cullen is waiting for us to lead. He will be supervising the initial formation.”

“Excellent. Will you both be at the front once we fall into step?” The Seeker nods in reply. 

With a whine, the Hart waits for his elven rider to swing her leg around and settle into the ornate saddle. His hooves scuff the muddied clay outside the stables as he fidgets, eager to stretch his legs. Inquisitor Lavellan double-checks that her staff is strapped down tight enough and satisfied, gathers the reigns in her gloved hands.

“This is your first time escourting a full contingency, yes?” Cassandra’s eyes glint – she is amused. “You are the Inquisitor. Unless we are riding into battle, you are safe to move beyond the proverbial grid. The soldiers will be the ones who must conform to formation.”

Varric and Dorian atop their own respective mounts, join the women. “Think of it as our normal adventures, plus one mother hen and his battalion of rowdy, armed children.” Dorian barks out a fit of laughter at the storyteller’s woven gag.

“You’d think they could defend themselves, considering they sport pointy blades and fearsome mauls, but _no_! They must be coddled above all else – they _are_ soldiers after all, you know.” Entertained at his own two cents, Dorian beams with and overzealous joy that sickens Cassandra. He fondles his moustache briefly. 

“He is mindful that they have families of their own to return home to,” Seeker Pentaghast frowns, “not many superiors remember this.”

“They are lucky to have him,” Lavellan agrees.

“As are we _all_ ,” Dorian simpers and Varric regards him with a wry smile. “Shall we ride? We have a small army to stare at us and gape in awe at our affluence. I shan’t be the one to keep them waiting.”

“I agree,” Cassandra admits with unease. She continues to find concurrence with a Tevinter to be unsettling, even though she has been sharing Skyhold with him for some (long) months. “We have dallied enough, Inquisitor.”

Urging the Red Hart forward, she relaxes into a straight posture – the air of a leader. “Onward then.”

Leading the party, the Inquisitor smiles at Josephine and Leliana who both stand atop the main stairs in the upper courtyard once they come into sight. It’s shortly after dawn; most residents still asleep in their quarters. Passing recruits and agents stand at attention and salute with confidence, civilians and merchants wave. Dorian preens himself.

Hooves clop rhythmically whilst the team traverse the long bridge, beyond the battlements and watch towers. Here, the gales howl. Thankfully, the snow has tapered off as spring eases in, and visibility is as good as it can get midst the mountain peaks. A vast difference from temperate Wycome, Lavellan had acclimatised to snowy Haven. _Tarasyl’an Te’las_ was more of the same.

Beyond where the lip of the bridge meets gravel-mixed snow, a contingency fifty men strong is assembled. The Inquisition flag shudders in the frigid air, standing tall among the sea of parade-shined helms. They try not to stare as the Inquisitor rides to meet the Commander; Seeker, Altus, and Story-teller in tow.

“Soldiers, attention!” Without hesitation, fifty soldiers click their heels and salute at once. With chins up and their jaws set, Lavellan finds herself unnerved but openly impressed.

Lion-face helm under arm, Cullen sits atop his own warhorse; plated in light armour, it resembles more beast than steed. He turns his attention to greet the party with an exasperated smile. “We are ready to leave for the Griffin Wing Keep when ready, Inquisitor. We should be taking approximately the same number back with us to Skyhold once posts are established and the rotation is complete.”

“And good morning to you too,” The Inquisitor teases, her tone dry, her smile teasing his lack of manners. It was forgetfulness, not intention on Cullen’s behalf – they both knew that.

“Oh- uh, forgive me. I’m too distracted in keeping this all organised. The sooner we move, the better.” He tries to not reflect on the squabble mere hours before to find where he had tossed his boots off for the night after spending too long absorbed in paperwork and hastily retiring.

Inquisitor Lavellan regards her small army with approval before turning back to her Commander. “They seem to be in good form. How long will they be on tour?”

Cullen looks to his soldiers with pride, his cheeks glowing pink in the cold air. “If everything goes as planned, 6 months. Just as the Crestwood’s Caer Bronach.” The Seeker hums in approval from the side.

Rolling her shoulders, the elven mage makes no effort to wipe away her smile. Taking one last glance at her charges, she gathers her reigns. “Best we move then, otherwise it’ll be time to take them all right back when we arrive.”

“I feel like we’re the ones on show,” Varric mumbles before laughing to himself. “Well, mostly you though, Inquisitor. Can you feel their eyes glued to your back? It’ll be great practise for that ball Ruffles keeps talking about.”

“Hmm, yes, so very helpful Varric,” Lavellan sighs, “The perfect cure to stage-fright.”

“Nothing like a good dose of stardom to relieve you of any and all fears of accidentally forgetting to dress beyond your smallclothes before you step on up to that glistening podium.” Congratulating himself, Dorian pats his back.

With one word, Commander Cullen has his contingency marching in time to a perfect beat. He can’t help but fight the pleased smile that tugs at his cheeks as he follows along-side the battalion descending the peak. He hadn’t expected these fresh recruits to hold form so well, not at all. They’d make the Inquisition proud.


	2. Chapter 2

Tent setting was a treat. Lavellan had never seen so many _shems_ have trouble with grounding guide ropes and erecting poles. It was nearing dusk, and she stood arms crossed by the central fire admiring the organised anarchy. Perfectly set into rows, entirely bedlam. She wouldn’t intervene, they’d only learn from their own trial and error, but Creators was it a good show.

“It's still a work in progress, but I’ve got a joke for you. Trying my hand at Southern comedy.” Dorian wanders over, staff in hand and a book tucked behind his other arm. The make-shift quarters for the party had already been set up by the Inquisitor and Seeker Pentaghast, so he could rest easy knowing he wouldn’t find canvas and a heavy pole meeting his face in the dead of night.  
Inquisitor Lavellan glances at him briefly and Dorian comes to a stop beside her. They watch the polished recruits together. “Let’s hear it.”

“How many Inquisition soldiers does it take to pitch a tent?” Already pleased where this is going, Lavellan snorts and a cracks a toothy grin.

“How many?”

“Fifty to carry the supplies, two-dozen or so spies called in from Skyhold to bring and dictate the instructions, three dignitaries from Orlais to approve of the use of “their” supposed land.” The tallest of a small group hammers his thumb and tries not to scream. “And one Herald to bless the earth for solid pegging.”

She nudges him with her elbow. “The Venatori would probably get a kick out of that one.”

Dorian chuckles, “The Red Templars would give a grunt of jovial celebration at hearing their tainted mental capacity equals that of our trained army.”

“Everyone has to start somewhere. They’ll learn their lesson tonight,” she unfolds her arms and spins on her heel to see what her warriors are doing. “Better they arse it up here on a routine tour a day’s ride from Skyhold than out on the final push against Corypheus.” Dorian hums in agreement.

Cassandra has distracted Cullen with her map, discussing where tomorrow night’s camp would be pitched to prevent him from meddling with the soldier’s own life lesson. If they botched their own tent jobs, that was their problem and not his. Not everyone will listen to everything authority spouts at them.  
Curiosity leads the Tevinter to follow the Inquisitor’s line of sight. “I have a question for you, Inquisitor.” 

Placing hands on her hips, she does not glance. “ _Ma nuvenin_. What would you like to ask?”

“What do you think of him?”

She hums quietly in thought, tugs her lip between her teeth. Fingers twitch on her hips. “There’s more happening in his life than he lets on. Thinks no one sees when he presses his fingers to his temples. I think he mumbles the Chant when it’s bad.” Lavellan raises her marked hand, looking at the back of it and turns it up to see her fractured palm. “There’s weakness in his hands. Sometimes they shake when we’re moving markers on the war table.”

“I’ve seen too, but that isn't what I meant,” Dorian pretends not to notice the flinch when Cassandra raises her conversational voice, which is harsh enough, slightly louder than what Cullen’s ever-present pounding can tolerate. “What’s your opinion on the strapping Templar, Commander of the Inquisition? You both spent an awful long time chatting over chess once I left the other afternoon. I do hope you won.”

She closes her greened hand and returns it to her hip, rolling her head to smile at the mage. “I won.”

Lavellan takes a deep breath, turning her attention back to Cullen. His hand is pressed to the side of his skull in an effort to nurse it, eyes pulled shut. Cassandra offers him a flask. “He shows his true colours when he’s having a good day and has ten minutes to catch his breath. He’s very kind and thoughtful. I never thought each and every _shem_ was as cruel as the _Banalhan_ \-- wait what’s your word for it… Blight, that’s it. I struggled to see any Templar or associate as anything more than a feral dog bound to a corrupted Chant.”

There is a moment of comfortable silence as the friends quietly think to themselves. The rustling and hammering and cussing of tent setting had died down; most having now retired having already eaten. Final streaks of the day die behind the surrounding white-dusted pines.

“When do I expect to hear of your extravagant confession?” Dorian purrs playfully. He turns to look at her fully now, watches her focused profile. He marvels at her attempt to stifle a chortle and how she subdues it to a lopsided smile.

“Provided I don’t discover on this trip that I in fact had my impression painted entirely wrong, I should like to tempt the thought on returning to Skyhold.” She twitches her nose and scratches at her cheek. Trying to hide her muted nerves, she looks to Dorian and takes the tome from under his arm.

He relinquishes his book and watches her trail her fingers across the gold-leaf details, opening up to a random page to scan the text. “If I were so bold to say – and I am -- I doubt his opinion will change. I doubt yours will either, Inquisitor.”

“I don’t doubt it for a minute,” she simpers into the faded parchment. Lavellan tries to ignore the rush of blood in her ears, at Dorian’s suggestion Cullen liked her just as she him. Even if she would always be _da’len_ in her Keepers eyes, she was no child giggling over some crush. “It will be interesting.”


	3. Chapter 3

"How long will your stubbornness trump your comfort, Commander?" Lavellan grinned, leaning over her saddle to laugh at the glistening warrior. They had passed through the last of the forest and were now riding on red desert. Most of the company had lightened their gear in an attempt to not overheat as they made their way into the Western Approach. It was early morning, and the sun hadn't reached it's peak. Cullen had only removed his furred coat, and refused to lose anything else. He must be presentable. Varric wondered if he'd survive a game of Wicked Grace if clothing were at stake.

Cullen grunted, narrowing his gaze and taking a swig from his flask. A bead of sweat ran down the back of his roasting neck and he knew his fair skin would be burnt for days to come.

"He is of Ferelden, I hear much about how it is in their nature to never budge." Did Cassandra just make a joke? Lavellan glimpses Varric jotting something down.

"But you're from Nevarra," the Inquisitor frowns, she readjusts her sweaty grasp of the reigns. It takes her a moment to realise the statement, but once her brow sets Cassandra gives a classic scowl. Her eyes laugh for her.

"Very clever," she sighs, "you will be remembered in the ballads as the funny elf, I am sure."

"I wonder if anyone will write any _good_ songs about me." Lavellan brings a finger to her chin and taps it thoughtfully. In the moment of contemplation, the Commander discreetly rolls up his sleeves and wipes at his flushed brow.

"You could always ask Leliana to write you one just to be safe," Varric suggests, uncapping his second flask for this morning.

"I don't know how wise that would be. She'd know every dirty secret and probably compose something too controversial for the tavern scene let alone court." Dorian waves a spell between his fingers and saves the curl of his moustache with a well placed stroke just before it wilts. "Actually I retract my statement; that would be a brilliant idea. Send her a raven."

"Sister Leliana was more of one for romances or tragedies," Cassandra admits, "usually both. She does do a pleasant rendition of one Elven song. Although I am afraid I have no idea of the title." The Inquisitor frowns, having hoped she might hear the name.

"Inquisitor, you were trained to become a Keeper, yes?" Cullen's unexpected entry into the conversation startles even himself and he pretends he didn't just blurt that out to indulge his curiosity. "A-are there particular songs one must know to pass down?" 

Dorian nods, approving of the question. "Or do you just sit on books all day deciding how to rearrange them then shaking would-be travellers as the stories might suggest?" Cassandra sneers at the tactless mage's commentary. Lavellan doesn't seem phased.

"I'm not entirely sure of other clans, but there are a few songs we must know in and out. Keepers are the only ones permitted to learn the written language, so it is their job to translate meaning and relay relevant texts." Patting the thick neck of her Hart, the Inquisitor hums quietly and scratches the hide. "There aren't always nice things in those books."

Understanding that asking the true nature of these were not a good idea, the Commander settles for a harmless but similar inquiry. "Are they mostly historical?" 

"Ours are but I am sure other clans posses different articles. We have some journals and I don't know what to call them beyond studies on past Keeper's traditions and events big and small ranging from my grandparents time to the scattered beginning of the Dalish."

"You sound as if you miss them," Varric notes.

"I do," Lavellan admits, this time her turn to seek a drink from her pack. "I could surely use their guidance when faced with difficulties leading this Inquisition."

Cassandra frowns and her scar hooks on the expression. "Could you not request these documents?"

"I'm honestly unsure. I am no longer the First, so I really have no true right to them. Maybe Keeper Deshanna would lend me them but honestly, I can get by without them." For a moment she is homesick and tightens the grip on her drink. "I will be fine." Everyone knows she is right, but it still doesn't seem fair.

There is a lull in the conversation for some time before the sharp angles of Griffin Wing keep peer above the sloped horizon. There is a cheer from the parched soldiers trailing behind the party.

"Come, Inquisitor." Commander Cullen gathers his reigns with reignited determination. The sooner they arrive the sooner he can stretch his legs and find a shady alcove to hide in. "You need to take position as we approach."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisitor and co. arrive at Griffin Wing Keep and convene with Knight-Captain Rylen.

The gritty iron gates scream as they are hauled up as the horn sounds from a bailey. There is a momentary roar in the marketplace bustle as merchants quickly tidy their goods and soldiers take position around the perimeter. The flag bearer rides in first, holding steadfast in the blistering heat, the legendary Inquisitor right behind. Her hair is slicked back from the wind and a scarf tied around her head to shield the tips of her sensitive ears from the merciless sun. She’d almost appear human at a glance if not for her vallaslin. 

Her Hart shifts his hooves, disgruntled by the enclosed courtyard. The Inquisitor surveys the crowd while she runs her nails in circular motions on her mount’s neck. She waits for her companions to join her before dismounting and handing the reigns to the nearest Inquisition helmet she spots. She is sure to stroke her Hart’s snout before he is lead away.

Dorian loudly announces how wonderful it is to finally use his legs and proceeds to stretch down to his toes. He was still mostly layered, save for some more defense-specific pieces which had been discarded long before reaching the desert’s lip. He must use some form of spell to keep his garments so pristine.

"You are truly no soldier," Cassandra remarks, displeased in his boisterous observations and pampered expectations. She begins to untie her pack and retrieve her shield which she slings over her shoulder.

"I am so glad someone finally noticed!" the Tevinter announces, "could you please pass this information on to Inquisition management so I can receive the feathered mattress I deserve?" Lavellan tries not to laugh but Varric doesn't even try to hide his.

“How did you expect your living conditions to be upon joining the Inquisition?” Cassandra sneers, it’s something akin to a hiss and her eye’s scrunch into her cheeks. She tears her pack from the last of its bindings to punctuate her frustration.

“You see,” Dorian drawls, Cassandra already regrets this conversation. “I left the Imperium before they taught all us how to conjure our own canopy beds. It’s a part of the curriculum for young magisters, you see, and I had been under the illusion that the road of life had a well furnished Inn at every quarter mile.”

If there’s one thing the Inquisitor respected Cassandra for, although there were numerous things, it was her ability to look a person dead in the eye and not falter no matter how they spoke to her. Feigning disinterest could save her from some of Dorian’s ruffling, but she never backed down. Her glare was something to be immortalised on a marble bust.

“Seeker, you need to stop giving him what he wants,” Varric suggests with a chuckle, a brow lifted. He glances over his shoulder momentarily to check Bianca sat securely on his back. The sweat between the straps and the rest of him left them both feeling uneasy.

The Inquisitor pinches her brow with a sigh. “And Dorian needs to stop baiting her.”

“It’s not my fault she falls for it without fail,” Dorian whines, now stretching his interlocked fingers away from his chest. “One day she’ll learn. Not soon though, I’m afraid.”

Seemingly stoic, small details noted to Cassandra’s latent fury and embarrassment: slightly drawn in lips, the twitch on the left side of her jaw that teased her scar, and the red tint of her dark cheeks. She releases this frustration with a strangled grunt, turning her attention to checking her pack to make sure her reading material for this trip wasn’t damaged since she last opened the covers last night.

Once the inner circle began talking amongst themselves, albeit not quietly, the stationed agents and guards returned to their responsibilities throughout the Keep. More than a few continued to eavesdrop, many weren’t skilled enough to look away while they listened. There were the sounds beyond the gate of Commander Cullen organising the contingency that had been escourted from Skyhold, mostly shouting.

“Ser!” A dwarven agent met the Inquisitor with a salute once she scampered down the stairs. “Knight-Captain Rylen sent me to greet you, I’m Jescha. The Knight-Captain is in the Inner Ward.” With a pause, the agent looks from the elf to her other companions then back. “Shall I take you to him, Inquisitor?”

“Yes,” she nods, “please do.”

Staff in hand, the Inquisitor ascends the first flight of stairs from the main courtyard. The bladed edge clinks with every kiss of the sandy steps, and she finds herself already weary of carrying her pack. There is a kink in her lower back brought on from riding for too many hours in such unpleasant heat.

She watches the activities taking place in Griffin Wing Keep. Trainers oversee exercises, shouting instructions and insults typical of an army. There are small meetings taking place in the pools of shadow anyone can find to escape the scorching sun; whether they are important meetings or gossip not though, she doesn’t know. Surely the majority would be discussing her presence though, it’s what came with the job. This new identity brought with it many new things.

Jescha leads the small party up the final flight of stairs guarded by another wrought gate, this one already open however. Cresting the steps, there have been more tents set up since they were here last and new workshops set up.

“You have made yourself quite at home here, I see,” the elf smiles as she approaches the waiting Captain. Her staff cracks on the stone when she comes to a stop and raises her free hand to shield her eyes from the glare.

“It’s a far cry from Starkhaven, and a further one from Skyhold,” Rylen admits after his salute, “but we’ve done what we can.”

The Inquisitor always enjoyed talking to the once Templar. His accent reminded her a little of the Dalish one she now rarely touched on. He was also honest, possibly more than he ought to be with a senior officer, but she appreciated it.

“How have things been since I was here last?” She asks, levering her pack from her back and sitting it at her feet. She sees Cassandra is still standing beside her, Jescha close by waiting to be dismissed, but the other two are no where to be seen. She shrugs and turns back to her conversation. “Have the wildlife been any issue with the water supply again?”

“Nay, Inquisitor.” The Captain folds his arms behind his back and bows his head slightly. “Everything’s run almost like a dream since you dealt with our to-do list. Save for the dust storms and occasional dragon activity.”

“Has the dragon posed any serious threat to this Keep?” Cassandra interjects, never a fan of such large visitors. Rylen shakes his head.

“I intend to deal with her at some point,” Inquisitor Lavellan notes aloud, “I noticed some scorch marks a little too close to some of our camps.”

“Try not to have your hair scorched off, or the rest of you for that matter. I know the Commander would end up throwing us at it, and honestly, we prefer being behind these walls.”

“He would not be so irresponsible with your lives,” Cassandra flushes with a shot of indignance, “to imply such, Knight-Capt-”

Quickly, Inquisitor Lavellan places her long fingers on the warrior’s arm. “He’s joking,” she urges, happy to dismiss Rylen’s crude humour. “Did you want to go get some rest?” she adds more quietly, “you don’t need to stay with me.”

The Seeker frowns, glancing at the Captain with an unforgiving look. She’ll be bringing this up again later. “I will take my leave.” Cassandra did not enjoy being dismissed, but knew when she needed some time to herself to unwind after dealing with not only Varric but Dorian in tandem for too many days and too many more to come.

“She’s not too friendly,” the Knight-Captain affirms. He now has a report in his hand but doesn’t pay it much attention, instead focused on the Seeker’s retreating back.

“She tries,” Lavellan smiles tiredly, “some of our company has worn her nerves, as you can tell.” Looking back to the man, she fidgets her fingers that had begun to sweat and stick to her stave. “I think I may take my leave too. I’d like to put my belongings away and inspect the Keep.”

Rylen sketches a salute and turns to Jescha who stands silently. “Agent, show the Inquisitor to her tent. If she has no further needs of you, I have some reports I need you to clarify. I will speak to you soon, Inquisitor.”

"Excellent," Lavellan nods, ready to sit down. "We'll discuss everything else once we're a bit more settled."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisitor takes a tour of the Keep with the Commander.

Griffin Wing felt like a skeleton. Sure it was a fortress, but there were no rooms per se, only walls to serve as barriers from the desert. What would be specialty rooms like officer’s quarters or intelligence bureaus, were designated tents arranged along the windbreakers. One of the first things requisitioned were pegs specially designed to hook into the cobbled floors so the mock war room wouldn’t fly away, reports and all. It took a heavy swing of a warhammer to get them in, but they held. Capped boots were a standard seeing as enough toes had been broken within the first week of installing the pegs.

The Inquisitor’s quarters were a canvas tent nestled into a corner so it caught at least two angles of shadow throughout the day. It was nothing remarkable, other than it had multiple pitchers of water already stored away by the entrance for drinking and bathing.

It was the morning after their arrival, and she had just returned from sharing breakfast with Cassandra on the southern ramparts. It was a mostly silent meal, and she enjoyed not having to talk to share the warrior’s company. Lavellan returned to her tent afterwards, needing a little more time to herself before committing to today’s duties. 

Leaning over her bedroll she reaches for the side pocket of her pack to find her sun-proof balm. Dipping her fingers into the fragrant slop, she rubs it thoroughly into her sensitive ears and face, paying special attention to her nose and cheeks before putting it beside her and pinning her hair back in a bun.

She sits with her back against one of the sides that meets the solid stone of the fortress’ windbreaker with a pillow stuffed between her for comfort. When she had gotten up, Lavellan hadn’t been too considerate when she bound her residual limb and donned her prosthetic. She’d been doing her best to ignore it, but it begun to irritate her skin through her wrappings from the hour or two spent up already. She reminds herself to be less flippant about it -- what if something had happened and there was no time to fix things? 

Doffing herself from it, she pulls her limb out and sets to untying the red tape she wears in the traditional Dalish tie. Bundling it up in a ball, she sets it beside her and pulls another balm from her pack. Dipping a clean cloth into the viscous mix she begins to clean the hollowed out socket.

Humming quietly to herself, she rocks side to side gently in time to her song. She continues to clean the whole of her aide, taking extra care to work out all the little pieces of grit that has built up in the grain, joins and details in the brief tour outside. She’d only cleaned it last night and it had already gathered more than enough sand. She wonders for a moment, if one could enchant such an item and if so, what would become of it? Maybe it could be sealed and not gather crud in every nook and cranny. She makes a mental note to ask Dagna next time she visits the Undercroft.

When she has done a thorough job, she places it beside her and reaches again for her pack. She gropes around for the salve she’s looking for and pulls out a small bottle. Uncorking it, she pour some of the oil onto her palm and rubs it between her hands to heat it up before massaging it into the freed skin. The cooling salve relieves the slight redness and she hums contentedly.

Once that is done, it’s time to reassemble herself. She wipes her hands off on her thighs leaving oily streaks on her skin and sets herself to work on rewrapping her leg. Lavellan had spent many days and nights practising the iconic Dalish bind throughout her childhood, determined to master it. What had once taken her hours of tantrums now took minutes with ease. 

“Inquisitor?”

Lavellan jumps, hand reaching for her chest as she lets out a meep. “ _Fenedhis_ ,” she gasps, blinking her eyes tightly. “Come in.”

Pushing the flaps open, the familiar golden halo atop Commander Cullen’s head peers in. “My apologies, I didn’t mean to startle you, Inquisitor.” His furred coat was again missing, and his vambraces and gloves were gone too, replaced with rolled up sleeves and the dusting of dark hair and scars along his forearms.

“It’s fine, I was in my own little world,” she chortles, fastening her leg wrap. “What can I do for you?” 

“I wanted to inspect the Keep before we finalised the new rotations with Rylen.” He ducks in further, trying to block the sun that shone in behind him and forced the elven woman to squint at him. She mutters a thank you. “I had thought you’d want to also review the Keep’s current standings also.”

Lavellan nods eagerly. She had wanted to yesterday evening but was simply beyond even thinking about walking laps up and down the stairs and around every which way on this sandy mound. 

“D-did, uh,” glancing at her leg, Cullen tries not to somehow come across as rude. “Did you want me to come back when you’re not busy?”

“No, it’s fine, I’ll just be a moment,” she waves her hand dismissively and sets to work donning her prosthetic. This was her “field” leg, she called it. It had enough scratches and repair jobs that it was far from an acceptable court accessory.

She tries to fill the pause while she readies herself. “Rylen seems to be enjoying having you here.”

“You’re joking,” Cullen scoffs.

“There’s nothing like having both the man you answer to, and the boss of that man in your fortress at the same time,” Lavellan teases, securing the last tie. “I heard the two of you trying not to argue too loudly after dinner.”

“He likes to push my buttons, it seems,” the Commander sighs, his eyes rolling. “He’s a good man, he knows what’s expected of him and genuinely cares for his men but…”

The elf laughs and motions to get up. “What’s that expression you _shem_ ’s use? He’s... a bit of a bastard?” she offers.

“I- y-yes that’s how it goes, but, you know I wouldn’t use those words, Inquisitor.”

“You’re not telling me I’m wrong though,” she simpers once on her feet. She glances at her stave propped up, but decides against it today. She feels steady enough without it.

The Commander steps aside and holds the tent flap open for her. He decides to not respond; he’d rather not risk further incrimination especially when someone else might hear. It wasn’t like it was news to anyone, but he had an image he wanted to uphold.

“Was there anything in particular you wanted to look at, Commander?” Figuring a change of topic was best, the Inquisitor wanders out from her tent and overlooks the uppermost bailey. She can see Dorian and Varric playing cards with a familiar looking agent. What was his name? He’s around Skyhold more often than not.

“I mostly wanted to assess the guard positionings and oversee some of the training exercises.” With one hand propped up on his pommel, his air was more casual with the coat stripped away and sleeves rolled. He was still quite large, shaped from hours spent training between paperwork, but he didn’t seem so indomitable. He looked more human. He gestures for the Inquisitor to walk.

It was still a few hours before noon, and the sun still had some distance to cover before reaching its peak. The shadows were still long, but the wind began to heat up as soon as dawn broke.

“How long do you suggest we stay here, Commander?” Her wooden heel clicks loudly with every step, a contrast from the padded step of her wrapped foot. The arid climate was a warm welcome, a bit more similar to her days in muddy Wycomme, but came with it’s own challenges.

Cullen hums quietly in thought as the couple descend the first stairs to the Western gallery. “I’d like to be gone sooner rather than later, Inquisitor,” he shrugs, it’s less extravagant without his mantle. “I do not enjoy being so far from Skyhold for extended periods of time.”

“Do you not trust Leliana to manage your responsibilities while you’re gone?” The Left Hand was well informed on tactical espionage and troop movements, and was easily able to organise and manage an army but she was heavy handed in some matters. It was a universal agreement that she was more suited to her role of Spymaster, but her skills were helpful across the board.

Coming to a stop, Cullen chews softly on his lip. Four officers pass them and try not to stare as they continue along to the battlements. “It’s not that I don’t trust her,” he sighs, grip tightening on the blade strapped to his waist. “I… like to do things myself.”

Sometimes Lavellan struggled to understand the cryptic meaning behind _shemlen_ manners. “You don’t trust her to do things the way you’d want them to be done?”

“I, yes, I suppose so,” the Commander concedes. He brings a hand to the back of his neck and scratches gently with his short nails.

“You seem uneasy admitting that,” the elf mumbles. “Why?”

“I don’t believe it’s very proper to admit freely you doubt the methods of your co-workers and good friends,” he frowns, eyes narrowing slightly. “Particularly to the one person you both answer to.”

Inquisitor Lavellan mirrors his expression, then draws her mouth into a grimace and scoffs. “You all openly disagree in our meetings, it’s quite clear each and every one of you have different ideas and expectations. Why is it any different saying so outside of the War Room?”

Commander Cullen sighs again, although it sounds closer to Cassandra’s grunts. “It feels like gossip.” Lavellan laughs at his response, and without a second thought, continues the tour of the Keep. Her companion is feeling left slightly embarrassed -- was this at his expense? He hurries to catch up with her.  
“You’re being silly,” Lavellan chortles, nudging the Commander’s arm when he joins her stride. “I promise I won’t tell her you think she’s ill-equipped to do your job for more than ten minutes.”

“Please don’t say it like that,” he grumbles. There is a faint headache rattling somewhere between his eyes. The sensation of cold fingers on his forearm almost make him jump.

Lavellan smiles at him. “Sorry. I don’t mean to upset you, I won’t speak of it again unless you bring it up.” Sometimes she was a little too honest with her humour.

“I appreciate that, Inquisitor.” Cullen clears his throat, feeling the hesitation in her to remove her touch. He offers a shy smile and ignores the warm sensation in his cheeks. “Lieutenant Banks should be beginning her session in a few minutes. Come, I’d like to see her regime for today.” The Inquisitor smiles, her hand now withdrawn. 

They walk quietly, nodding respectfully at soldiers and agents who stop to salute the two superior members of the Inquisition. There are brief conversations held, but nothing of substance as they continue their procession to the end of the Keep’s second level. Before the stairs, there is an open walkway to the left that sports an uninterrupted view of the deep ravine below. To the right is a small assemblage of recruits in full armour, blades tied to their waists.

Lieutenant Banks is a tall woman with coarse black hair tied into a strict bun, and dark eyes to match her skin. She keeps her helmet tucked underneath her arm and gestures to the guests. “Recruits, today’s exercises will be observed by the Inquisitor and Commander Cullen. So don’t do anything stupid.”

Lavellan puts on her best Keeper face and linked her hands behind her back, chin held high. She liked to see how well her troops performed under the pressure of a steeled gaze. Beside her, Cullen shifted his weight to one hip and glances at her with a smirk.

“You’ve been practising that look in front of your mirror?” he teases, voice low as not to disturb Banks’ briefing. Lavellan glances at his sword glistening in her peripheral then turns her head slightly to look him squarely in that smug face of his. She tries to maintain the façade but scrunches her cheeks a bit in a smile and scoffs. She turns back to the exercise.

She loosens her fingers behind her back, adjusting her grip. “So what if I have?”

“You can fool them with it,” the Commander utters, also turning his eyes back to the troops. Although he steals another glance at her sharp profile, accentuated by the morning light peeking through and around the walls. For a moment he almost forgets what he was saying. “But it would never work on me.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra and Cullen discuss the Inquisition and the changes it has brought in it's wake.

Trying to steal a moment of peace, Cassandra sits in the evening sun tucked away on the ramparts repurposing a supplies crate as her seat and flipping through her book. Dorian recommended this series to her when he had seen the small collection tucked away in her arms one morning as she tried to escape the library without his noticing. It was an autobiography on a brave and influential woman who existed not long ago, her journal, but failed to mention her Tevinter affiliations. Regardless, Cassandra pressed on, eager to learn more of this woman’s eventful life and too stubborn to admit returning it without having read it.

Licking her finger, she turns the page, smoothing it out under her calloused digits and squints down at the script. She glances above the paper when she hears footsteps approaching, but doesn’t pay much attention. When the figure comes closer she lowers her novel.

“Cullen,” she smiles, “to what do I owe the pleasure?” The blonde man returns her expression and looks around briefly for a place to sit. He spies a crate similar to hers, upturns it and moves it across from her. 

“I overheard some soldiers talking about how the Seeker had seemingly taken their rotation,” he chuckles, eyes creasing, “I thought I might join you.” His chestplate whines as he perches himself on the case. Untucking a scrap of cloth from under his belt, Cullen produces a flask of oil which he sits aside to draw his sword.

The woman shrugs. “I did not dismiss them, but if they chose to leave me in peace I will not complain. Their idle chatter annoys me anyway.” She returns to her book once they are quiet for long enough.

Nursing the blade on his thighs, Cullen presses his rag to the lip of the flask and upturns it twice. He sets the metal vessel beside his seat on the ground and begins to run the cloth along the length of his blade. He had decided to entertain Lieutenant Banks’ charges and allowed himself the opportunity of a light spar. Unfortunately, his competitive streak got the better of him and he did more than a little damage to a few shields. Now he needed to work the splinters off of his sword.

Time with Cassandra was always pleasant. They had now known each other for something over a year now. Had it really been so long since Kirkwall? A cold finger of unwanted memories runs its tip slowly down the length of his spine and he clenches his jaw, refusing to react.

But no, he enjoyed the Seeker’s company. Some found her hard to get to know, found her abrasive and blunt. He found her honest and determined, and he appreciated having someone he could trust with his circumstances. It was interesting now; she had been a mentor to him when they had first met and when he first made his choice to leave the Order, but now he was the Inquisition’s Commander, second to the Inquisitor herself. Cassandra helped found the organisation, but she did not lead it, nor play as much of a role in it as her counterpart, the Left Hand. He enjoys the plateau of equality in their friendship.

“What are you reading?” Cullen asks, wanting to indulge in conversation.

“A book,” is Cassandra’s flat response. Her friend huffs and tries not to laugh.

“I can see that much.”

“It is a book Dorian has recommended me,” she elaborates. Adjusting herself, Cassandra props her arm up on the wall overlooking the Western Approach’s spanning desert. “It is the journal of a Tevinter merchant.”

Cullen raises a brow at her and stills his motions. “I am surprised to hear you’d read something from that corner of Thedas.”

Pursing her lips, Cassandra glances at him. “He neglected to tell me of it’s origin… But I am glad. I would not be learning of this woman if I had of let my prejudices lead me.” Her cheeks pull up and crinkle her eyes for a moment. She immediately returns to her story.

“I don’t know what I expected of that man, but,” it’s now his turn to purse his lips in thought, trying to word his observation politely. “He is… more human than I had envisioned Tevinter’s to be.”

Cassandra nods thoughtfully into her book. “He and The Iron Bull’s Lieutenant, Cremisius, have changed my opinion on the Imperium’s citizens too.” Licking her fingertip, she turns the page. They sit quietly again.

Turning the blade in his hands, Cullen inspects for any spots he may have missed. The golden rays of dusk illuminate the metal in his hands and casts a brilliant glow. He thinks back to nights in his Kirkwall office spent with a barely touched glass of wine from nights before and a stubborn scuff that refused to budge from his blade. Too many papers sat atop his desk and too many responsibilities hung from his shoulders in the city’s ruins.

“Many things have changed,” he mumbles to himself.

“Pardon?”

He pauses, not realising he had spoken. His breath catches for a minute, a moment of nerves. Then he remembers this is Cassandra, and he does not hide his thoughts. “Since the Inquisitor,” he says more audibly, “I have found many things have changed.”

“Don’t you mean the Inquisition?” Cassandra corrects, still engrossed in her writings.

Cullen tries not to splutter as he rushes to correct himself. “I, yes. Uh, not to say she hasn’t changed things herself, but yes, since the Inquisition.”

“I appreciate her perspective on things,” Cassandra comments. She pulls a ribbon from her pocket and lays it across the fold between her pages to mark where she is. “Her training as a Keeper definitely contributes to her role in a positive manner.”

He doesn’t look up from the hilt he is now cleaning with false determination. “I agree. She makes a good Inquisitor.” That slip of the tongue will plague him for weeks, not that the Seeker would really have noticed or at least mention, but he had a habit of remembering the little things he trips up on. 

“She is very interested in knowing the people around her. She is more open now, since coming to Skyhold,” the Nevarran places her book in her lap. “Do you think it has to do with what happened at Haven?”

“Yes,” Cullen replies in confidence, “she had told me as much.”

Cassandra furrows her brow. “She told you?”

The Ferelden nods. He pretends he isn’t being stared at. “Yes, she told me,” he glances at her. “Did she not speak to you about it?”

The Seeker turns her attention to the landscape, surprised and somewhat hurt that she hadn’t heard of this from the Inquisitor herself. “No. She hasn’t mentioned anything.”

“I think it made her realised she could never go back to her old life,” Cullen offers, engrossed in his polishing. “I saw a lot of the resentment in her, like what I felt when I had first been transferred from the Circle.”

“She was homesick?”

Cullen nods. “I’d say so.”

Cassandra downcasts her eyes and stares at her hands and book resting in her lap. Everyone could relate to that feeling at some point in their lives, and she felt disappointed in herself for having been so unaware. What her friend said made sense, yet she, a Seeker of Truth, had never looked hard enough for something so simple and so natural. For someone who spent so much time with her, she knew very little of Inquisitor Lavellan.

“Do you two speak often?”

There is a thoughtful hum. “I see her regularly both inside and outside of the War Room meetings. Often enough, I suppose?”

Cassandra is quiet again. She was always asked to travel with the Inquisitor, and was visited by her regularly behind the tavern. She had asked the elf a bit about her origins; what it was growing up, about her family. But did not know much of the Inquisitor beyond that.

“Do you know her opinion of me?” 

Cullen ceases his chore instantaneously. He pauses, then turns to Cassandra with a clearly confused expression. He tilts his head slightly at her steeled brow. “It is very unlike you to ask such a thing.”

She regrets the words as soon as they are out of her mouth. Think before you speak, she reminds herself. She takes a deep breath in. “You are right. It is silly of me.” Cassandra frowns and glances back at the sunset.

“I didn’t say it was silly.” Cullen folds up his cloth and tucks it back under his leather belt. His sword sings as he glides it back into its sheath in a gentle sweep. “She speaks of you with great respect. Understands your opinions and why you hold them.”

She frowns at the grains of sand dancing in the hot breeze. “I trust her, yet she does not share such knowledge of herself with me.”

“If there is one thing I’ve learnt about you, Cassandra,” Cullen shrugs, leaning back and admiring the sunset. “It is that you do not make friends easily.”

The Seeker scoffs, glancing at him with scepticism plastered across her face. “And you do, Commander?”

“No,” he admits with freedom. He knows himself. “But I figure a lot has changed in my life.”

“I suppose with everything changing in Thedas,” Cassandra sighs, “now would be a suitable time to change things in my own.”

“I suppose so.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric gossips with the Inquisitor and shares his opinion on a few things.

“Are there better things you could be doing beyond staring wistfully into the distance, Inquisitor?” Varric wanders his way over to the battlement with two books, some letters and a quill tucked under his muscular arm. He ditched his leather coat and was wearing his fine tunic, his chest on show for all to see.

Lavellan glances at him with a smile and returns to staring out beyond the shifting sands. “ _Lethallin_ , are you filling in for Cassandra?” she teases with a flat tone. A gentle gust of wind tickles the stray strands of her bun.

“Nah,” the dwarf chuckles, “I haven’t practised that disgusted noise enough.” He places his belongings against the stone wall and joins his friend. Folding his arms, he leans with his shoulder pressed to the merlon. “Contemplating the hard choices ahead of you as the Inquisitor, or are you imagining long walks on the Storm Coast with the sun dusting your shoulders as you walk hand in hand with that someone special?”

Her cheeks pucker; her teeth glinting as her lips pull back. Lavellan’s chortle is deep, and she eyes him fondly. “You seem to already have your own idea in mind, Varric,” she hums.

His laugh in response is warm and it reminds her of home. The dwarf scratches at his chin. “I pride myself on knowing the ins and outs of most social circles.”

Returning her attention to the desert beyond her Keep, Lavellan squints her eyes, straining against the afternoon glare. “I’m afraid I’m not daydreaming, for once,” she admits, “I am in fact waiting for someone.”

“That sounds exciting,” he nudges her side with his fist.

“Oh, it is,” she simpers, “although I don’t think we’re on quite the same wavelength.”

Varric opens his mouth to ask for her to elaborate, but he is cut short as soon as the air begins to move past his tongue. A thunderous roar rattles the soldiers, and they scramble to take up their positions. A menacing shadow glistens over the Griffon Wing Keep, talons glinting in the sun.

Lavellan eagerly watches as the beast soars across the sands and perches in the distance, a burst of flame spilling from her wide open jaw. She had been assisting the scholar beyond their southernmost camp in luring and studying the Abyssal High Dragon.

“I still can’t believe you want to take that thing on,” Varric sighs. He isnotably less smug than before.

“I don’t exactly want to go toe-to-toe with a dragon,” the elf admits. She raises her hand to her brow and tries to shield some of the glare from her eyes so she can watch the monster feast away. “At any time she might decide this hold needs to go, and I can’t allow that to happen.”

“You don’t show much remorse over the fact,” he accuses.

The soldiers gather along the battlement and watch the dragon fearfully. Some are excited and boast about how they plan to slay it.

Lavellan pauses and brings a hand up and waves it between the pause; she says it helps her think. “What do you people call it? Bragging rights?” 

Varric chuckles again, this time more heartily. “You already have that Frostback’s skull on show in Skyhold,” he exclaims, “what are you going to do with more? I don’t think there’d even be enough room.”

“There’s one bailey we haven’t confirmed any development plans for,” she hums thoughtfully, “I could make it my trophy room.”

“You could get paintings of every noble you offend and hang them up in there too,” Varric suggests with another friendly nudge.

“That’s a fantastic idea!” Lavellan giggles. “I don’t think even Cassandra would disagree with that one.”

Varric’s smile becomes thin lipped at the mention of her name. “Well, that’s a start.”

Lavellan’s brows knit together and obscure her vallaslin. She swivels to face him and tilts her head, crossing her arms to mimic his pose. “You really don’t like her, don’t you?”

“Considering she interrogated me and technically never let me go, no,” he grumbles. “I don’t like her.” She can see he’s trying to not be as bitter as he’d like to be; trying to keep the tone light. Lavellan sighs.

“Do you think you’ll ever find common ground between the two of you?”

He scoffs. “The day that happens is the day nugs fly.”

“Hmm.” Lavellan shrugs, stealing a glance at the dragon minding her own business beyond the dunes. “It makes it hard for me to feel confident in our team is all. I’m sorry for bringing it up.”

“Eh,” he waves a dismissive hand, “Hawke would say the same thing. It’s fine, just don’t expect me to kiss her or something.”

“It’s okay, I’ll do it for you,” she winks.

“Really?” he wheezes, barely containing a fit of laughter. “No way.”

“Yes way,” Lavellan chortles. “She’s got a gorgeously set jaw. But nah, she isn’t interested.”

Varric shakes his head at the mental image, but he can’t contain the disturbed grin that pulls at his mouth. His chest shakes with a rumbling chuckle and he pinches his brow briefly. Taking a deep breath once the picture finally fades in his mind’s eye, he turns to rest his hands on the cernel and leans out. “See, I had heard you had eyes for someone else.”

She shoots him a brief glance and again checks on the dragon who is now stretching her webbed wings. The sight of her wing span made her mouth go dry. “You’ve been talking to Dorian, huh?”

“You should watch yourself around Nightingale, she knows more than she let’s on,” Varric nods, “but Dorian too. Josephine, even Mother Giselle have thoughts too it seems.”

The Inquisitor jerks her head to stare at him, her eyes slightly wide. “Has he gossipped about me?” Varric shakes his head and she frowns harder.

“No, nothing like that. He keeps tight hold of his and the secrets of those he respects. You can trust Sparkler.” Varric places a reassuring hand on her bare forearm and sports a smile to match, “it just turns out that the little dance you’re doing is more obvious than you thought, Your Inquisitoralness.”

Lavellan huffs out an exasperated sigh and groans a little. Her cheeks feel warm. 

“Hey, if anything this is reassurance that you’re not barking up the wrong tree,” he says kindly. As much as he liked to tease, he had a way to emphasise that there was a genuine caring motive behind his mannerisms.

“ _Fenedhis lasa_ ,” she mumbles. “It’s a bad idea, Varric. Don’t encourage it.”

“You know what’s a bad idea?” Varric pouts, “blowing up the Kirkwall Chantry.”

“What’s not to say this is in the same vein?” Lavellan shrugs and places a hand on her jitting hip. “The world is being torn apart and I am the only one who has the key to solving this problem.” She raises her marked hand, the green glow subdued in the orange light of afternoon. “What if my feelings were to get in the way of making the right choice?”

“Inquisitor,” Varric tries not to openly laugh at her, “Lavellan, you and Curly are the most duty bound people I have ever met. I would and do trust you to make the right decision regardless of your circumstances.” He pats her on the hand. “You’re making up excuses.”

“No,” she retorts like a stubborn child, “ _you’re_ making up excuses.”

“I make up stories -- epic ones, not excuses. Please,” he waves a dismissive hand, “get my profession right.”

She shakes her head in disbelief but she can’t hide her grin. “You are absolutely unbelievable, Varric,” she sighs. Glancing away she wipes her hand across her face and strokes a strand of hair behind the length of her ear.

“So are the reviews I’m getting out of Antiva,” he laughs. “But seriously, talk to him more. He isolates himself enough and doesn’t really open up to anyone, well maybe to the Seeker but she doesn't count, anyway, you both enjoy each other’s company. Be a friend to him at least.” Another playful nudge. “Also it makes for good gossip material when you’re not around. I like needling him about little things.”

“You are cruel,” she sniggers. She pretends her stomach isn’t tickling from the butterflies.

“Nah, that’s Nightingale’s job.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Playful banter around the dinner table revolving around the Dalish's concept of what is and isn't attractive.

“Riddle me this.” Dorian’s knife cuts through the air like a wand as he gestures at Lavellan. “What is considered attractive from a Dalish perspective?”

Lavellan stares at the Tevinter mage with a fork full of mashed potato stuffed into her mouth. Her cheeks bulge and threaten to absorb her eyes, which disappear further when her brows frown. She pulls the utensil out and finishes chewing, the metal clinking on her bowl as she places it down. “Why?” she asks, punctuated by the slithers of potato glimpsing through her gnashing teeth. She covers her mouth with her hand and swallows.

“I am curious whether I would be considered handsome by your people’s standards,” he beams and resumes sawing into his cut of meat.

Cassandra sits beside the Inquisitor who is seated at the head of the small table, and makes a faint grunt at the change of topic, she pretends to not be interested. She makes sure to chew quietly. Beside her, Cullen quietly picks at his meal, the seat across from him that seated Varric currently void of the dwarf who sought a second serving.

“I, uh,” the elf stares thoughtfully at her friend, “I… I guess?”

“Well that’s not much of an answer,” he shuffles his chair closer with a grunt of the stone floor, “I hear elves cannot grow facial hair. Surely mine would be considered exotic, and that has a charm in itself.” He gestures to his curling moustache with his knife.

““Exotic” is what people use to market anything foreign as if it were some kind of prize,” Cassandra sneers.

“I am quite a catch, Lady Seeker.” She rolls her eyes and stuffs another bite into her mouth.

Lavellan places her elbow onto the table and leans in. “I’m not sure how to tell you this, but most Dalish hate you _shemlen_ ,” she deadpans with a shrug, “if anything that’d make you far less attractive in their eyes.”

Dorian juts his bottom lip out. “You are quite open to the company of us humans,” he states plainly. Stabbing a slice of his meat, he runs it around his plate as soaks up as much gravy as he can. Whoever the chef is can’t cook for the life of them.

“Because my clan had positive relations with the holds and villages around us,” she explains. Taking her fork back up, she scoops up some more potato, pops it in her mouth and washes it down with a sip of water.

“Then tell me of your clan’s opinion,” Dorian beams. “Should I pack my bags and prepare for the journey to visit Clan Lavellan on an expedition of great importance in matchmaking?”

Cullen snorts into his drink. “Is he always like this?” the he inquires. Cassandra’s response is a deep inhale and a tired “yes”.

“There’s only 37 people in my clan, Dorian,” Lavellan scoffs, “36 now that I’m gone. Anyway, I can’t speak for all of them.”

“You were to be Keeper were you not? You can speak with authority,” the polished man grins in a way reminiscent to fly trap. He takes up his mug and sips carefully from the wooden lip, eyes on her.

Lavellan looks to Cassandra with a pleading expression, hoping she will interrupt and declare the conversation pointless and forcefully changing topic. Instead she is met with a sheepish Nevarran who hides her face into her plate, refusing to engage. Cullen glances away and tries to busy himself with scratching the hairs at the base of his neck. 

The elf takes a deep breath in and turns back to an eager Dorian. “I’m afraid I don’t know each and every member’s preference in partners intimately enough to give you the response you’re fishing for.”

“Who’s fishing for intimates?” Varric asks as he returns with a plate stacked with some form of selection of glazed vegetables and meats. How did he procure those and how much did he pay for them? Dorian pulls the empty seat beside him out for the dwarf so he doesn’t risk spilling his delicious food.

“I am trying to get a straight answer out of our Dalish Inquisitor here, on what is considered attractive within their nomadic circles,” the mage simpers, leaning back to nudge his dramatically shorter friend then swivelling to redirect his attention back to his target. “In particular, where I would be.”

Lavellan’s red markings scrunch up when she shifts to sneer at Varric. “And _I_ was just explaining that I,” she returns her gaze to Dorian, “cannot speak for an entire clan on this matter.”

“Then it’s solved,” Varric says simply. He has armed himself with a knife and fork and begins stacking morsels onto the prongs. “Our Inquisitor can just speak for herself.” He grins at her knowingly.

The Inquisitor’s rolling eyes speak a thousand words. She leans back in her seat and props an elbow onto the arm of the chair, her cheek pressed against her closed fist. “I can give you a scathing review on that pompous attempt at a bowtie you call a moustache if you really want, you only had to ask, Dorian.” The two warriors across from him stuffle their sniggers.

The way Dorian’s chin juts up and he does his best to not sound indignant while Varric’s wheezing laugh emanates from beside him. The dwarf quietens himself with a swig of his ale when he is glared at. “Fine then, Inquisitor Lavellan, what _do_ you prefer in the field of facial hair?”

“Do you intend to adjust your look accordingly?” Cullen finally says, his brow lifting with a smirk.

“That depends on if you agree with what she has to say or not, you see,” the mage winks. 

The Ferelden’s expression promptly drops and he tries to say something witty in response but ends up clearing his throat and turning to Lavellan nervously, hoping the conversations attention will lead back to her sooner rather than later. Varric laughs again more loudly.

“Look,” the elf sits forward in her seat, her hand held in front of her in a sweeping gesture, “I will be honest: I hate Warden Blackwall’s beard.” Varric’s laughter renews itself, and he is joined by Cassandra’s quiet chuckling beside her. “I loathe it. It strikes me as so unnatural for one to grow so much hair on their jaw. It reminds me of a ram.”

“A ram?” Dorian questions from behind his mug.

Varric manages to quieten himself for a moment. “At least offer some way for him to improve his chances, Your Inquisitoralness.”

“I don’t know,” she whines, “if he won’t shave it, at least braid it?”

“I would pay good money to see that,” Cullen admits, having regained his confidence to engage in the conversation after Dorian threw off his stride.

“You know, if you asked nicely enough he may just do it,” the Seeker shrugs. She places her cutlery on her now empty plate and pushes it away from her.

“You gotta do it,” Varric says eagerly. Lavellan smiles and shakes her head.

Dorian glances as the rogue with a grin and returns to his interview eagerly. He makes sure to stroke his own cultivation of hair atop his lip as he poses his next question. “I must ask, Inquisitor, is it all manner of whiskers that offend you or is there a line?” 

She stops to ponder her response and taps a finger to her pouting lips. Her eyes wander off to peer into the glittering night sky. “Hmm, stubble is nice,” she mumbles, “it wouldn’t get as much gunk stuck in it and seems more proper.” She makes a stroking motion on her chin. “Some scruff here is fine.”

With a dismissive wave Dorian huffs at her. “But that’s so boring and unimaginative.”  
“You mean just like our Commander?” Varric teases, nudging the warrior’s boot from under the table.

“I am not boring,” Cullen frowns, “and I do not lack imagination, thank you.”

Dorian simpers. “I think he meant your inoffensive scruff you’re cultivating, but if it’s up for debate then that too.”

“No, you’re right Varric,” Lavellan nods, levelling her Commander with an analytic gaze. “It’s more subtle. It frames the jaw instead of hiding it away.”

Varric works on finishing his plate, and is sure to smile when Cullen searches for somewhere to anchor his flustered gaze and makes brief eye contact with him. He takes note of the nervous tick, the hand that runs through golden locks straight after, and the unintentional scratch at his growing beard.

“You two show little respect for your superiors,” Cassandra chimes in. Her arms are crossed and she rocks back in her seat with a practised glare. 

“Gheeze, we’re just having some harmless fun, Seeker,” Varric retorts with a full fork punctuating the air. “Right, Curly?”

Cullen glances at the Nevarran, his face recovering from the rush of blood. “I-it’s fine.” She scoffs in response.

Reaching over the table, Lavellan gathers the collection of now empty plates and stacks them onto hers. Cassandra politely passes her own to her.

“Do your harsh critiques reside exclusively in the realm of men, Inquisitor?” Dorian also mutters a thank you when his plate is removed from his vicinity.

“I have no preference, if that is what you’re asking” the elf shrugs. She does not sit back down, instead opting to leaning her hip against the wooden tabletop.

“Oh, I would love to hear your thoughts on the matter,” the mage beams, his fingers interlocking and forming an arch in front of his face. The corners of his eyes crease.

“I can tell you she thinks the Seeker has a nice face, particularly her jaw,” Varric interjects. Cassandra’s eyes widen and she jerks her head to stare at the Inquisitor, her expression between extreme discomfort and guarded flattery.

“I do not deny this,” Lavellan beams, “I think she’s quite gorgeous.”

“Inquisitor, I’m no-”

“Relax.” She nudges her seat back with her heal and places her cup on the pile of dishes before lifting them up. “I know you’re not. My interests lie elsewhere anyway.” She steals a glance at Cullen who immediately looks away.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me.”


	9. Chapter 9

Dorian lies on his bedroll, the flaps of his tent folded back so he can watch the world go by. He props his chin up onto a fist and sighs at the scattered journals strewn in front of him. He was working through reorganising his library’s reference sheet, and after the Inquisitor received word of some new additions he had to redo the whole thing. At least they weren’t more editions to Ferelden or Orlesian Chantry history, thank the Maker.

He glimpses a pair of heavy boots strutting past his makeshift doorway and grins. “Lady Seeker!”

She pauses, and deliberates whether or not she wants to deal with the mage right now. He was friendly enough but it had been a few too many days in his company; it was beginning to grate on her nerves. More than usual.

“I know you heard me,” Dorian calls. He scoops up his journals and sits them beside him. On his hands and knees he makes for the opening and pokes his head out with a wave. “You read. I wanted to ask your opinion on something.”

Cassandra narrows her eyes, but comes to kneel by the tent anyway. Her thick tunic moans at the movement, and she can feel some of it sticking to her skin underneath. She makes pushes her fallen sleeve back up and tugs at the ties of her collar. “What is it?”

Grabbing the top journal and producing a sheet of folded paper from behind one of his many straps, he passes her the latter. “I was informed today the Inquisition has been gifted two editions of the Antivan Maritime Records, one from 8:30 Blessed and 7:89 Storm, along with some old journals the Crows have managed to somehow lose.”

“Yes,” the warrior drawls, “and you want my opinion on what, exactly?” She takes the folded paper from him and opens it up, reading over the itinerary as he speaks.

“I was considering whether to organise the journals in the autobiographical section or whether to place them with the other literature obtained on the Antivan Crow’s history and assorted records,” Dorian shrugs. “Which do you believe would be more useful?”

Cassandra draws in her lower lip and chews on it in thought. She hands the sheet back to Dorian. “It depends on the nature of the journals,” she states, “if their contents are more of a day-to-day narrative, then autobiographical, but if they document particular events or responsibilities I believe they should be kept with the records.”

Dorian hums, folding the paper and returning it to whence it came. “Would you be willing to read through the journals yourself and write some notes for me?”

“I am a warrior, Dorian,” she snarls, “not a scholar.”

“Ah, yes, but you are also an avid reader,” he grins, risking a playful bump to her knee. “But then again your only interests seem to lie far beyond the boring end of fiction and poetry.” 

She looks almost shocked for a moment, and does her best to hide it. “I- I do not read such frivolous things!”

Dorian’s laugh is loud and unabashed. He presses a hand to his chest and rocks back before gathering himself. “Oh please,” he chuckles, “I know each and every book in Skyhold’s library and I can tell what’s missing. It’s okay to have dreadful taste, it’s a part of your rugged charm.”

Cassandra’s face contorts into barely contained fury, her indignation tinting the tips of her ears red. Her nostrils flare as she sucks in a deep breath. “You will not speak of this,” she leans in when she whispers her threat, “to anyone.”

The satisfied bobble of Dorian’s moustache when he smiles smugly, unaffected by Cassandra’s domineering show is enough to force her away. Her teeth flash like a wild dog and she leaps to her feet without another word.

Dorian watches her turn on her heel and march off. He leans out of his tent. “How is your reading on Oppia Ennia, by the way?” he shouts.

“Informative,” she bellows. An angry dismissive wave is his response as she continues her retreat. Dorian can’t help but laugh once more and retreats back into the safety of his canvas castle, opening his journal back up and jotting down some notes.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An impromptu meeting between the Knight-Captain and Commander isn't as tight-lipped as intended.

Knight-Captain Rylen storms over to the wide tent used as a makeshift office. Until the request for an actual one made of stone and mortar is deliberated, this is what they have to make do with. Standing behind the old desk found somewhere in the storage rooms on the first floor, is Commander Cullen thumbing through some reports forwarded from Skyhold.

“The soldiers are repeatedly submitting requests to deal with that dragon that keeps lurking around,” Rylen dumps the bound papers on top of the Commander’s work.

“And I’ve already said I will not allow it,” the Commander frowns. He grabs the new addition to his pile and shoves it back into Rylen’s hands. “I told you to dismiss any new requests.”

The Captain snatches the documents back. “She’s an occupation hazard waiting to happen, Commander,” he complains while waving the sheets in the air.

“You don’t think I’m not aware of the fact?” he groans, barely keeping a grasp on his temper. A headache rattles between his ears and needles prick his back and arms.

Rylen takes in a deep breath, taking a step closer and tries to keep his voice down. He fails to do so. “Your inaction suggests otherwise.”

“Your incessant nagging does not help speed up the bureaucratic nonsense, _Captain_ ,” Cullen snarls, his voice dripping with frustration and using the title to remind Rylen of his manners.

“Well you seem to be too busy either hidden away in here, or out taking strolls and intimidating my men, _Ser_.” Rylen’s face slowly tints red as his temper steadily frays. “We have already agreed on the rotation changes, what else could you possibly be doing?”

Cullen slams his palms onto the table, his reports and inkpot jumping. “These are not just _your_ men, Captain,” Cullen growls, “they are not the only ones I am responsible for. Do not accuse me of being uncaring.” A shot of pain sparks up his arm, but he ignores it.

Rylen crosses his arms and leans in. “I am not accusing you of not caring, I am accusing you of prioritising the wrong people, Commander. We do not have nearly enough defenses in case of any aerial attack, Ser, and we all know it.”

Sighing lethargically, Cullen pinches his brow then wipes his hand up to comb through his immaculate hair. He keeps his eyes closed for a moment and counts to ten. “I understand, Captain, but it would be just as dangerous to seek out that dragon. I refuse to risk their lives, Rylen,” he pleads.

“Waiting is just as much a risk,” the Captain urges. He unfolds his arms and begins to pace the room. “I have soldiers and agents here, but also merchants,” he groans, his accent thick with emotion, “I cannot ask them to wait for the inevitable. _I_ cannot wait.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t offer anything else,” the Commander admits with a heavy chest. “I don’t like it either.”

“Why can’t the Inquisitor do something about it?” Rylen asks from the corner of the tent, pausing his pacing with a stern gaze. “She has the Hinterland’s nuisance strung up in Skyhold’s main hall. Surely she can take this pest.”

“The Hinterland’s dragon had already established a nest, this one has not as far as we know,” he replies with gritted teeth. Pushing his sleeves further up, he places his hands on the desks lip and presses his weight in an attempt to relieve his aching legs. “I will not ask her to seek it out.”

The Knight-Captain rolls his eyes and dumps his handful of paperwork on top of the vacant bench beside him. “Is she to wait with the rest of us then?” he asks, stomping back to the opposite end of the carved desk. Cullen sighs again.

“I don’t know,” he grumbles. “I need time to think this over and discuss it with the Inquisitor.”

Inquisitor Lavellan strolls over to investigate the ruckus and hears her title. “Discuss what with me?” She pauses at the threshold, peering in at the two men.

“Inquisitor,” Captain Rylen salutes her, “it’s to do with the dragon.” 

Cullen straightens up and reaches for the familiar pommel strapped to his waist. “Inquisitor,” he greets her with a slight nod. “I am trying to explain the difficulty of this circumstance to the Knight-Captain. I don’t deem it safe to seek the beast out, but I concede that waiting is not a satisfactory alternative.”

The elf wanders in to join the two men, picking up the requests Rylen dumped by the entry and flipping through them once she comes to a stop beside the Captain. There are at least ten different submissions, all from various ranks and professions.

“This needs to be priority,” Rylen urges. Gifted with the ability to be unwavered in the presence of higher authority, he addresses her as he would anyone else but ensures to stand at a respectful distance from her. Her height is above average for an elf, but has the same agile build like every other he’s met.

Lavellan is unwavered by his mannerisms and smooths the documents in her hands. She turns her attention to the Commander. “Have these grievances been directly addressed?”

His grip tightens on the pommel. “I have spoken to a few of the men about this,” he answers curtly, “I have reassured them that they have been heard, Inquisitor.” 

“I want all of the people here to know that we are not ignoring this situation.” She gestures with the requests in her hands. “I’d like to speak with these individuals specifically, because it seems that from what I could hear of you both across the bailey, this is not a new trend.”

Rylen turns to her with a questioning expression. It’s only now that Lavellan notices his helmet is missing, and is quietly surprised by the scars dappled behind his short cut hair. “What do you intend to tell them?”

“That I will deal with this personally,” she responds plainly.

Commander Cullen shakes his head in disbelief. “Inquisitor, you can’t surely intend to fight this dragon.”

“I have agreed to assist a scholar with luring the Abyssal for him to study.” Lavellan folds up and tucks the requests into the pocket of her trousers. “I will send word for him.”

“Are you sure of this?” the Commander asks, releasing the vice on his sword and stepping around to stand beside her. The Captain makes no effort to hide his satisfied smile.

“I was hoping to tie up this loose end while we were here,” the Inquisitor assures with an honest smile and pats the Commander on the arm for emphasis and in an attempt to placate him. “No need to worry.”

“Is it safe to mount such a campaign in this climate?” Commander Cullen makes no attempt to stifle his concerns, emphatically gesturing as he fusses. 

“I’ve fought in worse. Please,” she reaches out to place her fingers on his wrist and places her hand over the back of his, “we will be fine, Commander.” He exhales and tries to release some of his nerves through it. Although his headache still nags behind his eyes, he can feel the warm tingling from where her fingertips meet his skin. He tries not to think about it.

“I will spend the rest of today preparing and we will ride out tomorrow.” The Inquisitor retracts her hands and turns her attention to the Knight-Captain. “I’d like you to take me to each individual that submitted these requests.”

Rylen is very pleased with this turn of events and his smug grin does not budge. He sketches her a salute. “Right away, Inquisitor.” 

“Lead the way,” she smiles, her hands clasped behind her back. “We’ll speak again soon,” she glances back to Cullen. He gives a stern nod and returns to his forgotten reports once the Inquisitor and Captain exit the tent.

He spreads his fingers across the etched papers and squints. Suddenly his headache is enveloping his mind and he struggles to concentrate through the haze. Cullen combs through his hair, he stares out the tent’s opening and his thoughts begin to wander.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning of the Abyssal High Dragon expedition.

It’s shortly after dawn when Inquisitor Lavellan rises. Her blankets are twisted around her leg, and kicks the limb free after sitting up. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she stretches her arms out and emits a twisted moan. She pauses to gather her thoughts and recall her dreams momentarily. There is a smile for the memories.

Lavellan pulls down her loose fitting breeches which catch on her toes on the way off. She kicks them across the tent and her underclothes join them. Rolling onto her side, she grabs her pack and drags it onto her bedroll with her. She fishes out a new pair of both articles and redresses herself. One leg of her trousers is cut short to save pinning the excess fabric back from the remainder of her right leg and getting it uneven under her wrap. Finding her ribbons stuck between the bedroll and tent wall, she binds her legs with her usual Dalish knot before donning her prosthetic and strapping it in place.

Shifting onto her knees, Lavellan lifts her thin tunic over her head, mindful of her ears. She tosses it to join her other articles. There is a moment of confusion when she can’t locate her breast band but it is short lived. Once on and after pulling the ribbons tight at the side, she makes sure the garment is comfortable before knotting it with a double bow. Now to find her armour.

She gets to her feet and gathers up the pile she’s made and stuffs it all in to her laundry bag. With that moved, she can now see that she dumped her coat and other assorted gear in the exact same spot.

Once fully dressed, the Inquisitor pulls her unruly hair back and carelessly braids it. She retrieves her potions belt and buckles it around her waist, she slings her leather day pack over her shoulder and grabs her staff. She unfastens the flaps of her tent and ducks on her way out.

The orange rising sun washes over her and warms her skin. She breathes in deeply and basks in the glow.

“Inquisitor.” Cassandra marches over, her armour loudly banging on her approach. She has elected to take no risks and has donned the whole of her gear, and shined every last piece to parade standard. One hand resting on the sculpted pommel of her blade, her large shield is held in the other. The Inquisition’s emblem winks as the sun hits it.

“Good morning,” Lavellan smiles. “I need to restock my potions and grab some rations, then I’ll be ready to move.” The warrior joins her and they both stride to the benches near the makeshift forgery.

“We will be successful.” The Nevarran swings her shield onto her back and steps in time. “I am confident in our abilities.”

The Inquisitor gives an approving nod and comes to a stop at the bench littered in clippings and flasks. “As am I, Cassandra.” Kneeling down, she pops open one of the cupboards and searches for the bottles she prepared last night. Grabbing a heavy basket, she pulls it out with a grunt and drops it onto the benchtop. “Here, take what you need. There should be enough.” Silently the pair equip their health draughts, lyrium potions and stamina flasks. 

It isn’t long before Dorian and the party’s rogue joins them. The Tevinter looks immaculate as usual, but the shadows under his eyes suggest a restless sleep. Varric pulls on his gloves and seems unphased that he is about to go face down a dragon.

“We’re about ready to go, I take it?” the dwarf asks before helping himself to the basket of remedies.

“The mounts have been readied,” Cassandra nods, “the Commander and Captain will see us off at the gate.” She straps her last bottle into place and stands at attention.

Dorian is deathly quiet, a usual while he still wakes. It takes time for him to adjust to the waking world, as the inner circle had learned early on. It was best no one force him to converse until he was ready. As awake as he appeared, the knuckle pressed to his closed eyes gives away his lethargy. 

“Here.” The Inquisitor passes him some draughts. He takes them with a curt nod and affixes them to his belt.

Lavellan wordlessly passes the Seeker her staff who takes it without question. The elf trundles into the large tent used for food preparation and collects four rations and eight bottles of water to dispense among her party. Cassandra exchanges the staff for her water and food, weaselling them away in her pack. The others follow suit.

With a click of her staff on the stone floor, the Inquisitor inhales. “Let’s move out.”

The descent to the courtyard is quiet. The stationed recruits salute the Inquisitor and her procession as they make their way through the Keep. Merchants carting their new goods to unopened stalls stop to watch in awe, careful not to drop the pricey merchandise.

There is a small assembly by the portcullis. Knight-Captain Rylen can be heard mouthing off at Commander Cullen, the former struggling to keep a hold of a thoroughbred’s bridle. He was always so subdued without the Ferelden in the picture and it was quite amazing how much effort he put in to seeing how much the man could tolerate. He thoroughly enjoying having around the clock access to the Commander; plenty more opportunities to test his resolve.

Two guards stand by the archway, their helmets shadowing their faces but the Inquisitor can feel eyes following her.

“ _Aneth ara_ ,” the Inquisitor greets once reaching the final floor. “Good morning.”

“Morning.” The Commander is thankful for the opportunity to finally talk to someone other than Rylen. The bags under his eyes appear deeper than usual, and his smile doesn’t quite reach as far as it usually would. He exchanges a glance with Cassandra that Lavellan does not recognise.

“Good morning, Inquisitor,” Rylen salutes.

The Inquisitor approaches the stable hand holding her Hart with an outstretched hand, eager to be with her friend once more. She thanks the young woman and begins stroking the beasts snout.

“I’m amazed that you’re in one piece,” Varric sniggers at the Captain, relieving him of the reigns in his grasp. “You’ve been hounding Curly since we got here.”

Rylen laughs. “He knows I’m the only one who will actually question his orders if they’re out of line,” he nudges the man with his elbow, “he wouldn’t give me up for almost anything.”

“I’d give you up for a moment of peace and quiet,” the Commander interjects, flashing him a tired attempt at a glare.

“Commander.” The agent appears out of almost no where, and is suddenly standing beside the man with a seemingly startled expression. They glance at the Inquisitor and look away when their eyes meet. “Report just arrived for you.”

Cullen takes the rolled up sheet. “Thank you, you may go.” And like that the agent is gone. Must be one of Leliana’s, Lavellan concludes.

“Anyway, you have your little reports to hide away behind, Commander,” Rylen rolls his eyes, “it’s not like I don’t allow you time to actually do your job, whatever it is.”

“His _job_ is to keep you and the rest of the Inquisition safe,” Cassandra scolds. The Captain narrows his eyes at her chastising remark but doesn’t respond.

“That was a joke, Cassandra,” Dorian chimes in with a barely groggy voice, “you missed it. It flew right by you.” He sweeps his hand above his head for emphasis.

“Good morning to you too, Sparkler,” Varric chortles and begins checking his horse’s saddle. It took a little more effort for him to mount it thanks to his short legs, but overall riding had become second nature to him now. It was most definitely an improvement from the old days of walking miles upon miles.  
Dorian strokes his moustache. “Yes, I am now alert and ready to dish out the much needed social aide our Seeker requires to navigate her day to day life.”

“Ugh,” Cassandra sneers, mounting her thoroughbred in an attempt to escape.

The Inquisitor binds her staff to her saddle and checks the straps. “Who’s the report from?” she asks, glancing at the Commander.

“Leliana. There is some new activity in the Free Marches that she is trying to gather more information on,” Cullen replies from behind his sheets. “She says to expect more updates throughout the next few days.”

“Understood. Please let her know that I intend for us to leave for Skyhold within the week.” Grabbing the horn of her saddle, she steps her food into the stirrup and pulls herself up onto her mount. Kicking her leg over, she leans to check she has slipped her foot into the other stirrup properly.

“I-Inquisitor.” Cullen pauses for a moment, he has now turned his attention to her, unsure if his question will be too overbearing. “How long do you expect to be out there for? I would like to have measures in place if things go wrong.”

Cassandra gives a muted smile of approval and turns her attention to the elf. “It will take time to place the luers and for her to come, but I estimate we would be back before later afternoon.” The Inquisitor takes up her decorative reigns and gets comfortable in her seat. “I will send word for the camp in the ravine to report to you if the situation changes.”

“Are we sure we’ve got everything?” Dorian inquires, now atop his steed. “Did we need to bring the mother hen with us?” Captain Rylen lets out a loud guffaw and Varric wheezes a little.

“Really?” Cassandra snaps. Cullen sighs.

“Joke, Cassandra,” Dorian repeats his gesture from before; his hand gliding over his head.

“Don’t waste your breath, Sparkler. She’ll never learn,” Varric comments with a roll of his eyes.

“He can come too if he really wants,” the Inquisitor chortles, “but I think your carefully groomed hair won’t appreciate facing down a dragon. Don’t you agree?”

“Ha, ha,” is the Commander’s humourless response. “And it is not carefully groomed.”

“I’ve seen you preen yourself in the meetings when you think no one’s looking,” she grins wryly.

“Curly, you and I both remember your Kirkwall ‘look’,” Varric teases, “I know the truth.”

Cullen shifts his weight between his legs, turning his head away and scratching behind his neck. He hopes no one can see the colour tinting his traitorous cheeks.

Taking pity on the Commander, the Inquisitor turns to the guards, her steed stepping back a few paces. “Open the gates!”

The sound of chains grinding echo throughout the Keep. The rusted metal groans as the spikes rise from the sandy earth. One guard stands beside the lever, the other holding their position on by the opposite archway.

“Your hair’s fine.” The Commander pulls his fingers from his fringe, staring wide eyed at the Inquisitor’s sly simper atop her elk. He chastises himself and reminds himself to keep a reign on his nervous ticks. 

“I think it looks very nice,” the Inquisitor chortles.

“Are we done here?” Dorian tilts his head. “As much as I enjoy… _this_ , whatever it is, I’d like this dragon dealt with sooner rather than later. Not that I am eager to have my outfit singed by a fireball.”

“I agree,” Cassandra pulls her reigns. “Let us be done with it.”

“Alright then.” Checking her positioning in her saddle, the Inquisitor squeezes her legs and turns her Hart to face the gates. She flashes the group a subdued smile, “let’s go.” 

With a flick of her reins she gallops out with her party in tow.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Echoes of the High Dragon’s roars can be heard across the Approach throughout the day. There are sometimes glimpses of her wings above the charcoal mountains, but not enough to establish the state of the battle. It is a nervous wait in the Griffon Wing Keep.

The horn sounds from the Eastern watchtower when riders are spotted. A second horn when the Inquisition’s sigil is reportedly spotted on one of them. With it’s bellow, the lookouts stationed begin to bustle around the battlements.

Knight-Captain Rylen is waiting outside the makeshift office when Commander Cullen appears out of the tent. “It’s the Inquisitor,” he informs.

The Commander begins pacing, Captain Rylen’s steps in time with his. “Any word on the party’s status?”

Taking the steps briskly, the men don’t stop to speak to anyone they pass. The familiar screech of the portcullis opening shudders through the architecture. Cullen’s headache that had finally been eradicated returns with the rush of blood to his ears.

“Three mounts, nothing else, Ser.”

“ _Three?_ ” Cullen feels his mouth dry. “They can’t identify whose?” He isn’t surprised when the Captain shakes his head solemnly. He grumbles quietly but does not slow his pace.

“Go and make sure the healer is ready in case he’s needed,” the Commander orders and Rylen hurries down a secluded corridor without a second thought. 

Brushing past a small assemblage of recruits, Cullen hurries down the second and final flight of stairs as Varric rides into the Keep. His coat is blackened, there are bandages decorating his arm and a distinct wet red colour seeping through slowly. There are some cuts on his face but nothing significant.

“Varric!” The Commander rushes over to guide the thoroughbred and tether it to a post. “What happened?” 

“You can lose the haunted expression, Curly,” the rogue chuckles tiredly. He gives the horse a thankful pat and swings his leg over the saddle, dismounting with a thud. A twinge of pain shoots through his arm and he cringes slightly. “We’re all in one piece for the most part. It’s nothing too serious.”

Cassandra is next to enter the hold. Her helmet is hanging from her saddle, tied there with a rope and clangs with the horse’s wide gait. There are some swipes of dirt across her face and some of her hair is singed, there are splatters all over her armour and warm blood dripping from her sheath. Around her waist are the Inquisitor’s scratched arms. She straddles the warrior, holding her tightly for balance. The horse comes to a stop beside the Commander.

“Help her down,” Cassandra orders without a moments pause.

The Inquisitor digs her fingers into Cassandra’s forearm as she tries to shift her weight. Cullen comes up behind her and presses a hand to her back, the other on her waist. He realises when she brings her right leg over that her prosthetic is missing and there are bloodstained bandages all along the limb.

“I’ve got you,” he assures gently, adjusting his hold as she moves her centre of balance. Both hands now on her waist, he steps close and takes her weight, lowering her down onto her leg. Cullen loops Lavellan’s arm over his shoulders and helps to support her. She mutters a thanks.

Dorian isn’t far behind Cassandra and brings the Inquisitor’s Red Hart with him, tethered to the horn of his saddle. He managed to stay out of the firing line for the most of the battle, and is only decorated with sprays of red on his bleached ensemble.

Dorian retrieves his and the Inquisitor’s staves once he dismounts and approaches the elf and Commander. “I’ll take this to your tent, shall I?” She nods in reply.

“Here, pass us your pack,” Varric says with is gloved hand held out. There is sweat smeared on his brow from the heat and exertion. “We’ll take it for you.”

It felt awkward being so doted on. “You don’t have to,” Lavellan replies bashfully. The dwarf hardens his expression, and she relents. Clumsily, she lifts the strap over her head and hands her bag to him.

“We’ll come check on you.” Dorian flashes a confident smile and a wink, and ushers Varric along with him. Lavellan tries to ignore their wry grins glancing at her over their shoulders.

Once on the ground, Cassandra opens the pack attached to her saddle and pulls out a bundle of stained cloth that clinks and clatters while she handles it. “Inquisitor, what did you want me to do with your damaged leg?”

“Take it to the smithy. Find out if it’s repairable,” she sighs defeatedly. She didn’t bring a spare. Her fist balls against Cullen’s neck.

The Seeker nods and turns to the Commander who adjusts the Inquisitor’s arm behind his neck, his hand coming up to hold her forearm slung around him. “Do you want me to help you carry her?” She gestures to the slumped Inquisitor with her dark eyes.

Cullen swivels his head to look at her, almost startled from seeing her so close. There is more intricacy in her tattoos than he had initially thought. The Inquisitor returns his gaze. “I, uh, think we have this under control,” he mutters with a soft dusting of colour gracing his cheeks.

Cassandra’s expression speaks the doubt she does not voice, but shrugs stiffly. “I will speak to you soon.” And with that she dismisses herself.

Inquisitor Lavellan sighs loudly and stares at the ground. Gathering herself, she slaps Cullen’s breastplate weakly with her free hand. “Come on,” she groans, “let’s conquer these stairs.” She pulls him closer, shifting the weight of her right side onto him.

“I could carry you,” Cullen suggests shyly, his left hand instinctively cupping her waist to support her balance. Awkwardly, they move towards the flight.

“Hmm, I’d at least like to attempt the stairs,” Lavellan says with an attempt at humour. “Spare me a little dignity.”

The ascent is decidedly slow.

Cullen clears his throat once they reach their fifth step. He can feel the warmth of her body through his breastplate. “How did this happen?”

“I tripped, I guess,” the elf replies dismissively. “I was trying to get further back and didn’t see a rock. I couldn’t get up fast enough, she pinned my leg down and crushed it.” She brings her hand around to latch onto Cullen’s breastplate, finding grip on the lip of the neck and levers herself up.

“How are you not dead?” He shakes his head in disbelief and thanks the Maker that she is in one piece. “Dragon’s do not easily give up a prize they have won.”

The Inquisitor pauses, loosening her grip of his neck to expose her palm. The green fracture across her skin shimmers placidly. “I opened a rift on top of her. Cassandra dragged me out from under the talons while the beast was distracted.” She returns her hand to it’s vice around his armour and let’s Cullen step up, his arm behind her lifting her up to his level.

“I am glad the Anchor has more than just once use,” the Commander admits. He stops. “Are you sure you don’t want me to carry you?”

Lavellan glances at the stone steps still left for her to ascend. And this was only the first flight. Her lower lip disappears and she chews it thoughtfully. She feels embarrassed enough as it is; she is the Herald, the Inquisitor, she is indomitable. Not to mention she will be teased for this. But she is exhausted, hungry, and all she wants to do is lie down.

She whines out a breath of air. “ _Fenedhis_. Fine, then.”

With a sweeping motion, Cullen stoops down to scoop her up in his arms with practised ease. He shifts her slightly to get a better hold around her legs and trying to be careful of her injuries. His other arm wraps around her back and presses her to his armoured chest. He is reminded of the night Haven fell.

A startled gasp escapes her lips, and she hopes no one passing heard her. She moves her arm so it loops his neck more comfortably and links her hands, a stubborn pout on her face. She doesn’t notice the pink blooming on the Commander’s face.

The ascent is surprisingly quick, and not so straining now that she isn’t attempting to hobble. Lavellan tries not to snigger at how silly they must look.

“You are doing a poor job of trying not to laugh, Inquisitor,” Cullen smirks.

“I was never good at that.” Lavellan tilts her head and a strand of hair falls from her loose braid. “I was thinking about how silly it would be if you were the one with a missing leg,” she chuckles. “I mean, I could try being a crutch but you’re packing a bit more than I think I could support.” She wraps her index knuckle on his lower breastplate.

“You’re not the heavy armour type,” Cullen concedes, the scar on his lip pulling up with his lopsided smile. “I believe I would crush you.”

Lavellan tucks a stray lock of gold back behind his ear and the tip of her finger brushes his scalp. “Do you think Cassandra would be strong enough?”

“Uh, I- Cassandra?” He splutters, suddenly diverting all his attention onto the second flight of stairs, unable to meet her gaze without blushing more than he already is. “Y-, uh, yes I wouldn’t be surprised, no.”

“ _Ir abelas_ ,” Lavellan utters. She turns her eyes up to the sky, noting the streaks of dusk as the sun begins to slowly set. The twinkle of stars warms her chest. “I always make you uncomfortable. I’m sorry.”

Cullen hums. They crest the stairs and he carries her to her tent. “I- it’s-,” he sighs, “you don’t have to apologise.” She doesn’t respond, instead she stares disapprovingly at the people they pass one by one.

“You don’t use as many Elven words as you used to.” A change of conversation to avoid the unease knotting in his gut was quickly becoming Cullen’s specialty. He shifts his grip on the elf in his arms.

Lavellan shrugs. “There’s no point speaking it when the people around you don’t understand it.”

“Solas does, doesn’t he?” Stopping at her tent, he hesitates before he ducks down and shuffles in. Lavellan is thankful she cleaned up her mess before leaving this morning. “I thought Josephine knew some.”

“Josephine only knows our greeting: _andaran atish’an_. And Solas,” she trails off, rolling her choice of words on her tongue. She pulls herself closer to him, worried she might slip on the angle. “Well, it takes quite a lot of energy to converse with that man.”

“You don’t like him?” Cullen drops to a kneel beside her messy bedroll and lowers her legs onto the covers. “I thought you both got along.” Leaning forward, he levers her torso down.

“You’d be surprised at how often he gives backhanded compliments and the scathing look he gives when you call him out on it.” With a happy hum, Lavellan enjoys the familiar lumps and bumps of her bedroll. She fidgets around to get herself comfortable and pulls her pillows up to act as padding between her and the wall the lining of her tent coincides with. She nestles into her spot.

“I can’t say I’ve ever noticed that, honestly,” Cullen appears genuinely disappointed. “I had thought he would be better than that.” He makes no effort to stand.

“You’ll notice it now,” she shrugs and begins unbraiding her hair. “He’s not a bad person, he’s just a bit of a twat sometimes. Most of the time.”

Cullen chuckles. “I think that’s true of a lot of, if not all people, you’ll find.”

“Hmm, but you’re not a jerk.” Lavellan runs her fingers through her hair once she frees it of it’s braids and twists it up in a bun. “You’re stubborn, but you don’t talk down to people. Josephine’s a good person too. I enjoy working with you both.”

“I, uh, to be honest I have been worse than a jerk,” Cullen admits with a hand trailing the back of his neck and flicking his collar from the sensitive skin. “I’m sure Varric has a lot to say about who I was back in Kirkwall.”

Lavellan’s eyebrows draw in, her vallaslin rippling. She observes his crouched form, looks him up and down, then busies herself with untying her bandages and wraps. “What made you change?”

“To who I am now?” She gives a nod in response. He scratches at his stubble and stares at the blank canvas wall hoping to find a succinct answer somewhere between the weave. What _did_ make him change?

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Lavellan assures, her hand gently touching his knee. She gives it a tap, then slides back into her own space. Her attention is focused on him.

“No,” he says suddenly and is surprised with himself. He makes sure his voice is more subdued. “No, I want to tell you. I’m just not sure of what I want to say.”

Cullen scrubs his bare hand over his face and takes a deep breath. His rubs his thumb over the bristles of hair on his sharp jaw, lost in thought. Lavellan patiently returns to her chore, sure to ball up her ribbons and bandages as she goes.

“My Knight-Commander overstepped a boundary that even I couldn’t ignore,” he mumbles, almost whisper-like. “I realised that I was one choice away of becoming what she was.” Cullen pauses and stares at his open hands in her lap. “There was a lot of anger that I couldn’t see past, and I didn’t realise the fact until that moment.”

Sadly, Lavellan watches him search his calloused palms for some ounce of wisdom or direction. She struggles to imagine him any different to who he is now. For his occasional bouts of anxiety, he had always come across as confident and honest about who he is. She didn’t know him inside and out, but she felt she had a good gauge of his person.

“It’s,” he pauses, voice still muted, “it’s unusual having so many people trust me. Mages especially.” He clenches his fists and turns them to gaze at the lightly haired and scarred backs. “I’ve gotten used to mages disliking me on principle.”

“I’ve never disliked you on principle.” 

Cullen pans up to view her face, an honest and comforting twinkle of teeth glinting from behind her lips. He was still learning to build friendships after having spent so long burning every one of those bridges he crossed. Something about becoming better friends with this Dalish elf made his heart race, as did her gentle gaze right this moment.

“Oh, uh,” he tries for a breathless laugh but ends up timidly staring at his arm draped over his jutting knee. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Lavellan hums. Lowering her eyes down to her nervous hands while she toys with her fingers. “It’s probably dinner time now,” she mumbles in an attempt to keep some form of conversation going and looks back to him. “I noticed you didn’t have much last night. You should go and have something.”

He narrows his eyes, unsure how to feel about her noticing his eating habits and reluctant to leave her on her own. “Would you like me to bring you some food?”

“I _am_ quite hungry,” Lavellan admits. “As thoughtful as your offer is, I’m not bedridden, Commander. I’d like to get it myself.”

“You had a hard enough time climbing seven steps, Inquisitor,” the _shem_ teases. One day she will wipe that smug smirk off of his foreign unmarked face.

“Then help me up.” She puts on her best Inquisitor scowl and holds a hand out to him which he takes with care and slides his hold down to her elbow. He reaches out and takes her other arm while standing and pulling her up with him. For a moment it feels almost intimate.

She wonders whether he feels it too.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A replacement leg is forged for the Inquisitor.

The blue sky was threatened by lingering clouds on the horizon, the desert begging for a refreshing storm and the air smelt damp. With Cassandra’s help, the Inquisitor had made her way to the makeshift forgery atop the Griffon Wing Keep. Carefully the warrior guided her to perch on the weathered stool and waited for the smith to finish hammering.

“Thank you,” Lavellan beams. She adjusts herself and crosses her thighs.

Cassandra glances at her, then with arms crossed, resumes boring holes into the smith’s muscular back. “Don’t mention it.” She sounded impatient.

Dumping the heavy tongs and mallet onto her iron workbench, the master craftswoman turns to face her quests and wipes her already blackened brow. She peels off her thick grey gloves and tosses them onto the table to her side.

“Inquisitor,” she gives a gruff nod that contrasts her silken voice, “Seeker.” The freckles speckling her cheek remind the elf of Leliana.

Lavellan cranes her neck as the tall human rounds her fire pit. “Master Lydia. I am told you wanted to see me.”

“Yes, Your Worship.” She kneels down to open a low cupboard, her dusted fingers smearing burnt soot on the elegantly carved hardwood. She wipes her hands on her apron carefully and reaches in. “I wanted you to try this on.”

The way her face lit up, Cassandra could’ve sworn Lavellan’s glow rivalled that of the brilliant stained glass windows in the Val Royeaux chapel. For a moment she missed the grand cathedral.

In Master Lydia’s hands held a newly forged prosthetic for the Inquisitor. The shattered remains of her old wooden leg were not salvageable, but once stuck together, proved to be a useful guide. It was crafted from deep lazurite, and had small engravings filled with poured dawnstone. Overall it’s body was very similar to her previous aide, but the main shaft had been thickened for balance and the heel rounded to mimic an actual foot. It was a tender detail that made the elf’s eyes prickle.

“It’s beautiful.” Lavellan stares in awe and reaches out for the item, her gaze glistening as it is placed in her cold palms. She caresses the metal, tracing the embellishments and grooves. She whispers a blessing to it.

The smith bows her head bashfully. “Least I can do for you after ridding us of that dragon, Your Worship. You treat your people good and deserve to be rewarded.” Lavellan doesn’t notice the warm and proud smile Cassandra directs at her.

“You’re too kind, Master Lydia,” the Inquisitor hums. “May I try it on?”

“That’s why I asked you here, Ser.”

Without hesitation, she unpins the gathered fabric bunched above her right knee. Unravelling it, she rolls it up so her remaining limb is visible. She hasn’t wrapped it today, and her smooth skin is thankful. Loosening the straps, she nestles her upper calf into the rounded hold, resting the solid heel on the ground. She fastens the belts tightly and reaches for Cassandra who offers her a hand up.

It is a little painful without her wrapping to pad the sensitive flesh, but she stands regardless. Taking a moment to gain her balance, she releases the Seeker’s strong hand with a thank you and takes a tentative step. Her face begins to bloom when she feels the joy of her regained mobility dawn on her.

She directs her thankful grin at pleased smithy. “ _Ma serannas_ , Master Lydia,” she beams, “thank you, it is perfect.” She gazes down to her legs and shifts her weight, admiring how the light catches on the shined lazurite. “ _Ma melava halani_ , I, you have helped me greatly.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Equipped with her replacement leg, Lavellan finds some time to practise her magic away from the Keep when news arrives.

Lavellan was determined to break in her new prosthetic. After midday meal she gathered her staff and pack and made her way around the Keep to the cavern leading into the well. It had been raining since early morning, but the air was still hot and had become humid with the moisture.

She props her staff up against the cave’s lip and peels off her wet tunic and tosses it onto one of many damp rocks. The rain runs down her bare back and chest, obscuring the tattoos on her body, and she feels free of her responsibilities for once.

Pulling the hilt of her recently fashioned spirit blade out from under her belt, she holds the weighted form in her left hand. She still had much to learn in the ways of the Knight-Enchanter, but she was determined. The art had formed from the ancient Arcane Warriors, in that she found connection with her culture she was now so isolated from. If she could no longer follow in the footsteps her Keeper had intended, she would celebrate and preserve her people’s history in other ways.

Adjusting her grip, she holds the blade out and channels her mana down into the hilt. With a splutter, the weapon bursts to life in the form of a brilliant green blade. The magic hums the stories of the Fade and glistens when raindrops collide with its surface.

The Inquisitor retrieves her staff in her other hand and holds the two weapons out, finding their balance. Her trainer, Commander Helaine, insisted she must wield both at once because that’s “simply how it’s done”. Lavellan wasn’t as convinced, considering what Solas had told her off the Arcane Warriors of dynasties past. Regardless, she practised the art whenever she could.

From years of hauling one staff in either or both hands around and above her head, she had dexterity and strength in both her arms. She slowly twirls both the weapons and walks circles in the moist sand. Passing the staff’s arc in front of her, she spins her blade behind and brings them around to switch their positions.

Sucking in a deep breath, Lavellan dispenses her mana between both the weapons with precision and begins rotating them faster. The sound of her staff whirling is barely audible over the rain. She practises conjuring different spells from her stave while keeping her spectral blade solid. There is a brief cough in the glowing green but the sword regains its light and continues to hum.

She brings both weapons up to spin above her head and generates purple arcs of lightning from her busy hands which dance up the falling raindrops. Lavellan starts to find her rhythm now.

With a flick of her wrist she spins her stave and it’s end collides with the earth, a loud crack emitting from the impact and a burst of flame ripping through the sand. She quickly resumes her circling while catching her breath.

So far her new lazurite leg was proving it’s worth. The additional weight was tiring on her knee and hip, but she could feel the crafted stability it possessed. 

Lavellan tosses her blade into the air, the sharp glow instantly disappearing with a spark once leaving her hand. She stops moving, holding her staff still and holds her hand out to capture the descending metal.

With a fumble, she manages to catch it and watches with joy when it once more flickers to life, basking her skin in an eerie green light. Through the blur of blood rushing through her ears and rainstorm, she hears the faint sound of hooves approaching.

“Inquisit-” Lavellan turns to face the horseman.

“Ah!” Atop the thoroughbred sits the Commander, his hand raised and eyes averted. “Maker’s breath. I’m sorry I didn’t realise you, uh.”

The Inquisitor disengages her spectral blade and tucks it back under the belt on her trousers. Her eyebrows draw together in confusion, but it quickly dawns on her that she isn’t dressed appropriately to _shemlen_ standards. She scoffs and paces over to her discarded tunic that sits plastered to the very rock she left it on.

“I- I’m so sorry,” the Commander says in a panic, blinking at the sand.

“It’s fine,” she calls while pulling her clothes back over her wet head. The dark cotton clings to her skin and she shakes her sleeves. “Although I don’t quite understand your _shem_ ideas of modesty. You can look now.”

Timidly, Cullen lowers his gloved hand. He struggles to match her gaze, distracting himself by reaching for the back of his neck to relieve his nervous tic. “It’s considered improper,” he mumbles, “for, uh, for women to-.”

“I know it’s frowned upon, but why are you men allowed to prance around without your shirts while you wield your swords or what have you,” she frowns with hands on her hips, “while we in the same profession must wear more layers in the same conditions. It does not strike me as particularly fair.”

The pause is filled by the rain and a gentle rumble of thunder from the horizon. 

“I, well, you have your point,” the Commander admits although still uneasy with the notion. “But-”

Lavellan chortles, approaching his mount with staff in hand. “It’s fine, Cullen,” she shakes her head with a smile, “it is just how things are done.” Digging her heel into the drenched sand she cranes her neck. “Did you need me for something?”

“I, oh! Yes.” He considers dismounting and explaining the situation but changes his mind. Cullen’s recovering cheeks set his jaw into his familiar serious expression. “News has arrived from Skyhold. You need to see it.”

The Inquisitor’s face transitions from confusion to an unsure frown. “Now?”

“Now.”

Cullen takes the staff passed to him and clenches his thighs against the saddle to steady himself while Lavellan readies herself to get on. She hooks her heel into the stirrup and gropes at the saddle for leverage. Boosting herself up, she clutches his shoulder and swings her other leg around before shuffling up to him and moving her boots so he can loop his back into the stirrups.

“What’s happened?” she can feel her throat drying in worry. Looping an arm around Cullen’s breastplate, she takes back her staff and makes sure she’s got a tight hold of him. Thankfully he wasn’t wearing his furred coat, otherwise her nose would be tickling up a storm.

“It’s news from your Keeper.” That is all he allows himself to say, the Commander looping the reins in his hands and flicking them with force. The Inquisitor feels her stomach drop and holds him tighter in an attempt to calm her nerves.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sent from Skyhold, an urgent message from Keeper Deshanna of Clan Lavellan arrives.

“When’s the soonest we can leave?” The Inquisitor paces around the makeshift tent office, her finger tapping her lips in contemplation. Her clothes cling to her form, drenched from the rain and her hair is plastered to her face and ears.

Commander Cullen leans against the desk. With no thanks to the weather the wax in his hair had washed out, leaving his curls free to rebel. “Captain, have the rotations been established?”

“Aye,” Rylen passes him a sheet. “Here is the names of those that will be returning to Skyhold. They will need some time to assemble though.”

“How long?” The impatience in her voice clearly evident, the Inquisitor’s sharp eyes jump across the letter in her hand. It was definitely Keeper Deshanna’s script without a doubt. They can’t afford to wait.

“At least half a day to load the supplies, Your Worship.” Captain Rylen is polite and compliant, a contrast to his usually audacious persona. The Starkhaven Templar reaches for his helmet left forgotten on the desk. “I will begin the preparations.”

The Inquisitor responds with a dismissive wave of her hand.

Cullen reaches for his familiar hilt and approaches the elf. “What do you intend to do?”

Lavellan pulls out the second page sent with her Keeper’s letter. It was written with two different hands detailing the suggested approaches offered by Lady Josephine and Sister Leliana. “I intend to fix this situation sooner rather than later,” she mumbles. “Tell me; what do you bring to the table?”

“I find it hard to believe that simple bandits would attack a Dalish camp with such force,” the Commander squares his shoulders to assume a serious posture and frowns. “My troops can give the Dalish much-needed support.”

The Inquisitor folds up the documents and walks around her Commander to circle the tent once more. “But do I send an army which will solve the problem swiftly and surely without much risk,” she holds out one hand to symbolise the choice and shifts it in a weighing gesture. “Or do I sent Leliana’s agents to lend support, still risking my clan but providing the opportunity to uncover the truth?”

“You do not consider Lady Josephine’s alternative?” Cullen shifts on his heel to watch the Inquisitor pace.

She crushes the letters when she clenches her fists and glares at the man, unexpectedly overcome by her frustration. “This is not a situation that can be solved with words. I will not trust some noble _shemlen_ , high and mighty, to protect _my people_ for the sake of a favour.” This was a situation that demanded action, and she struggled to trust even her own instincts in what to do.

The Commander raises his hand, taken aback by her burning flare and tempts a step towards her. “We will make this right, Inquisitor,” he assures.

“I will not allow it to be otherwise, Commander,” she sneers.

The stress of her clan being in such danger and left to her decision pulls at her nerves. She stomps around to the tents opening, throwing the flaps open to stand in the shower. She scans her immediate surroundings looking for her party.

“ _Dirthara-ma_ ,” she grumbles and spins on her heel to peer back into the office. “Commander, see to it that we leave for Skyhold within the coming hours,” she barks, “I will be sending your troops to Wycomme. Have your orders prepared, they shall be sent ahead of us and Leliana will dispatch them.”

"Inquisitor, wouldn't you want to consult with Leliana first?" Cullen watches the water dripping down Lavellan's marked brow and almost flinches when her usually calm and deliberative eyes focus their stress on him. "It is unlike you to not."

"And it's unlike _you_ to question my decisions, Commander" she crosses her arms over her chest but quickly drops them and tries not to pace. "This situation demands action, and without hesitation. Surely you must understand?"

He clutches his hilt tighter and his leather gloves creak. There is a headache lingering somewhere above his neck. "Yes, Inquisitor."

Lavellan threads her fingers through her tangled hair and inhales loudly, staring at her feet. She will protect them. "You are dismissed," she mumbles with a wave.

On his exit, Cullen plants a heavy and reassuring hand on her shoulder. He tries to find her eyes to offer a kind smile; the best he can offer. She rests her fingers on his, but does not look up.

"I will finish the preparations," the Commander says quietly but with unhindered determination. "I will send word when our troops are ready."


	16. Chapter 16

Cassandra tethers her horse forcefully. The bark splinters under the knots tension and the leather grinds audibly. She offers the beast an apple from her pack, but pays little attention as it nibbles at the treat in her palm.

The Seeker watches the returning soldiers who are to march on foot for this trip. It's late afternoon and they have only just made it out of that Blighted desert. It has been overcast with intermittent rain since leaving the Keep earlier, and the troops were exhausted from making double-time to get out the desolate region before nightfall. The majority were excited to be returning East and escape the endless sand.

From her vigil, Cassandra watches Dorian as he tries to distract a tense Inquisitor with some passages from a tome he brought for the trip. He appears to get a few curt words from her painted lips but is soon dismissed when she rubs at her eyes and turns a shoulder to him. The Tevinter catches Cassandra's eye and gestures to tug his collar comically. She sneers and pretends to be preoccupied with her horse.

She's too busy hoping Dorian will walk the other way and not flit to her after his unsuccessful conversation with Lavellan, that she doesn’t notice Varric approaching her. He tugs at Bianca's strap across his partially exposed chest and waltzes over with practised ease; boots sinking in the loose soil.

"You can stop pretending to be busy, Seeker. He’s gone," Varric forces a grin and plants his stout hands on his waist. Cassandra's eyes almost widen with surprise to see him but her ever consistent disgusted grunt emerges.

"What do _you_ want, dwarf?"

There is little sparkle in Varric’s eyes, and it does not go unnoticed by the warrior. The lines on his face are taut and there are bags forming bellow his lashes. He glances over his shoulder before turning back to the broad woman and takes a step towards her. 

“Relax, I’m not here to ruffle your feathers,” he hushes with a sigh, “I know you’ve been keeping an eye on Curly, and I wanted to talk about it with you -- if you actually talk instead of beating problems into submission.”

A dangerous flare of barely tempered fury flashes across Cassandra’s face at Varric’s observation. She was never good at not lashing out, it seemed. Cullen’s condition was not to be shared until he was ready. No one was to know. Last she had checked he had no intention of sharing it with the other advisors, let alone the dwarf. Her hairs bristling, she puffs out her chest and clenches her fists, head craning down. 

“Woah, woah! I’m not looking for trouble.” Instantly Varric throws his hands in the air and backs up quickly. He again glances around to make sure they’ve not drawn any attention to themselves. “I swear I haven’t said anything, I’m just a very good people watcher,” he pleads.

“You _will not_ speak of this,” Cassandra growls, an accusatory finger jutting out. “Not to _anyone_.”

“You really think I’d do that?” The dwarf struggles to keep his voice low, but his tone is venomous. “You know, maybe if you didn’t cling to your assumptions as tightly as you clutch that sword whenever we see an apostate you would actually have some friends.”

She moves to draw her sword, but stops herself short. She wants to shout at him, to put him in his place but knows this is not the time or place. She suddenly feels like a tight coil that is moments from springing to action in some way. 

So Cassandra lowers her hand and closes her eyes briefly and breathes in through her nose loudly. This was not the time to be irrational. “What is this about, Varric?”

He scoffs and crosses his arms, taking a casual step back towards her. “What I _wanted_ to talk about, before you jumped to conclusions as you always do,” Varric clears his throat. “Was my concern for the Commander’s well-being.”

The Seeker takes her turn to place her gloved hands on her waist. She tilts her chin up in a gesture for him to continue and she scans her eyes around their immediate vicinity to make sure no one is watching.

“He’s being more harsh than usual with the soldiers and it’s only been half a day,” the marksman grunts. He occupies himself by playing with the cuff of his embroidered jacket. “He seemed a little uneasy on his horse before we stopped for camp. I wanted you to know that some of the men are beginning to notice, and I didn’t want to bring it up with him directly.”

Cassandra nods decidedly. She had noticed similar things too, and it was not reassuring to know that others had also caught glimpses. “Then I will speak to him.”

Hesitating, Varric opens his mouth to reply but shakes his head in defeat. With a half wave of his hand, he dismisses the thought and turns on his heel.

“Varric, wait.” He stops.

She sucks her lips in momentarily, swallowing her pride. “Thank you,” she grunts. It doesn’t sting her tongue as much as she had expected it to. “For telling me this.”

The dwarf doesn’t hide his shock and looks almost bewildered, but recovers himself. “Anytime, Seeker.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Varric's assurance, Cassandra approaches Cullen about his withdrawals and tries to express her concerns.

Cullen sits hunched over a fistful of missives in his lap by the campfire. He writes hurriedly, the quill scratching the pages under his stressed grip. His back and shoulders ache from the withdrawals, the pounding in his head exacerbated by the irritating crackling of burning wood and chatter in the distance.

He flexes his fingers around the quill in an attempt to relieve the tension in his knuckles. With a sigh, the Commander rubs his other hand across his face and kneads his closed eyes.

He needed to get these reports finished and sent ahead to Skyhold before the contingency made a move at dawn. Soldiers were to be sent to Wycomme under the Inquisitor’s orders to defend her clan, and the sooner he finished the sooner the Inquisitor could try to relax.

Cullen glances up from his work to see her knelt over the fire to stoke the coals. It hadn't been a day since he told her the news, yet she already looked as if she hadn't slept a week. She jabs the logs excessively and makes an aggravated noise before standing back up. They exchange glances before she turns on her heels and storms off to some other part of the camp.

The busy Commander shakes his head absent-mindedly and returns to his missives. He signs off the topmost document, blows the ink dry, moves it to the bottom pile and begins proofing the next one.

With two steaming mugs in hand, Cassandra strides over from the food tent. She rounds the camp fire and comes to a stop beside the blonde man, waiting for him to acknowledge her presence. It takes a moment of his light being blocked to draw his attention.

"Oh, Cassandra." His voice sounds deflated, a hint of dryness in his throat -- but he is happy to see her. "I thought you'd be reading." He moves his barely touched dinner from beside him on the fallen log, and places it at his feet.

"I grow of reading, it is all I have done this trip it seems." Taking a seat beside him, Cassandra offers a hot mug and smiles when Cullen takes it from her with both hands.

"You did slay a dragon though," he smirks over the cup. Blowing on it, he takes a sip. "Thank you, I needed this."

Leaning forward, Cassandra props her elbows onto her wide thighs. "You are welcome," she fumbles with the brown mug in her hands, "you ought to take more care of yourself. I am not here to bring you hot drinks all the time." She attempts to sound casual.

There is a shot of pain in his eyes and she immediately regrets her words. It were times like this she wished she possessed Lady Montilyet’s or the Inquisitor's gift with words

"Are you suggesting I am unfit to command?" He frowns into his drink, turning away from her.

"No, you misunderstand." She grits her teeth, trying to somehow pluck the right words from the air. "We agreed I will step in if I believe it necessary. I would be more blunt if that were what I meant."

Cullen looks back up at her with confusion and apprehension painted across his face like a Dalish tattoo. "Then what's your point?" He ventures another sip of the soothing tea in his hands and waits for her to continue.

The woman grinds out a sigh and shakes her head. "You know I am terrible at... not nagging." She pinches the bridge of her nose and stares into the crackling fire. "I have heard gossip. People are noticing you are pushing yourself too hard, Cullen. You are losing your temper, and that is unlike you."

"You try not to nag but you do anyway, _Cassandra_ ," the Ferelden sneers into his drink, careful to keep his voice quiet. "There are things that need to be done, and I will see to it that they happen."

"At the cost of your health?" Cassandra hisses, angling closer to him to keep her words hidden from prying eyes. Leliana's people were everywhere. She surely would know, but in the chance she may not, she wanted to preserve their privacy. "You value morale, and you are singlehandedly threatening that, Cullen," the Seeker snaps. "You need to respect your own boundaries."

"I will do what is required of me, Cassandra," he repeats harshly. "It is my responsibility to get the Inquisition’s forces _where_ they are needed _when_ they are needed."

"Then share the responsibilities. Before now, you have barely been eating or sleeping. You have a Knight-Captain for a reason, and if necessary, myself." She downs the last of her drink and places it beside her.

"I can handle the load I carry," Cullen sighs, massaging his temples.

"You ought to discuss this with the Inquisitor," the Seeker mumbles, desperately trying to make her friend understand she was worried for him. "She would understand."

He slams his mug down onto the log with a crack. "I have told you before: she does not need to know."

"She is the _Inquisitor_ , she must be made aware of her Advisors situations." Cassandra grabs his forearm in a vice, brows turned down in tempered fury. "The Inquisition must not be compromised because you will not allow yourself a night's sleep, Commander!"

Cullen reefs his arm from her and his caramel eyes burn in the fire light. "Then relieve me of my post, Seeker, if you honestly believe I am a boy who cannot make his own decisions."

"It is not about that," Cassandra retorts with a spit of her tongue, "and you know it!"

" _Enough!_ "

The rarely heard venom of Inquisitor Lavellan cuts through the two of them like a cleaver. Looking over their shoulders, they see the elf standing with fists balled on her waist and worry lines marking her forehead. Every soldier in the vicinity watches with bated curiosity.

"If I truly do not need to know about this affair, _Commander_ , then you will do well to keep your voice down," Lavellan scolds, her accent suddenly pronounced. "I can hear you two arguing from the other side of camp."

"Inquisitor," Cassandra clears her throat, "please. It is my fault." Cullen scowls.

"I don't care whose fault it is. This is not the time nor place," she sighs. An ember dances across her face.

"Yes, Your Worship." Commander Cullen lowers his eyelids and glares at the sandy earth. Cassandra frowns, but nods.

There is a pause.

"Commander, a word please." The Inquisitor gestures for him to follow her, ignorant of his displeasure.

With a tired groan, Cullen gets to his feet and shoots Cassandra a glare which she does not shy away from. Gathering up his missives, he tucks them into his pocket and follows after the Inquisitor who wanders slowly into the forest that skirts around the site.

He trudges towards her, rubbing his forehead and trying to breathe calmly. His head is pounding and his eyes throb painfully. He must not raise his voice, he must not lose his temper.

"I'm not going to ask what it's about," Lavellan sighs, her arms now crossed when she stops. The fires bleed between the arching trunks and illuminate the trees gently.

When Cullen doesn't respond, she shrugs a little. "I trust you to tell me if there is ever anything I ought to know about," she hesitates, "but I am worried about you."

A shot of guilt tainted with anger sparks down Cullen's spine and nestles in his chest. This is exactly what he was trying to avoid. She didn't need to worry about him; it is his responsibility as her Advisor to worry about and help her. He places a lot of pride into the fact, and avoids thinking of the deeper implications of this stream of thought. He cares for her as friend, a close friend, and he would do whatever was asked of him to keep her and this Inquisition afloat.

"You're not saying anything, Cullen," Lavellan states dryly. She watches him, and her elven eyes glow eerily.

"Uh, sorry," he mumbles. He isn't really sure how to respond, honestly. He feels like he's been put on the spot and his agitation is only heightened. His hot angry fizzles under the pressure of her gaze.

"Did you want to talk about it?" she mumbles. Her lips pull in like they do whenever she feels she is toeing a line and was feeling hopeful, it is a nervous tick he always sees in the War Council.

He hesitates. For a moment he considers telling her the truth: admitting he couldn't balance his withdrawals and these missives to arm his battalion before they reach Skyhold, that he needed more time and hands to make the preparations around this splitting headache. That he did not possess the strength he once did, that he can’t sleep at night and when he does he wakes every hour in fear. That he felt compelled to assist her beyond his role of Military Advisor.

"No," he grunts, "I don't."

Her shoulders sag. "Alright." 

The air feels suddenly frigid. The two stand in awkward silence staring at their feet. 

"Uh." Cullen clears his throat, uncomfortable leaving the conversation in such a taut mood. He isn't sure of what to say. "How are you feeling?"

Lavellan hums into her chest, her chin pressed down. She rolls her thoughts along her tongue. "I will be better once we return home to Skyhold."

"You consider Skyhold your home?" He had always assumed she would consider her clan her home. She was one of the Dalish after all, and a Keeper’s First at that.

"Yes. It is where my future now lies," she says solemnly. She begins to pick at her painted nails and chipping the red enamel. "It's why I must protect my clan at all costs. I cannot preserve that history alone. There is no Keeper without a clan, and there is no home when there is no future."

"As I told you before: we will make this right," Cullen assures. He takes a step towards her, reaching out to touch her arm -- a chaste gesture she often shares with him. He was so angry before, why isn’t he now?

She looks up and he is shocked to see wetness glistening in her eyes. "But what if we don't?"

He had never seen her express doubt, he could never have dreamt of it. Cullen felt even more lost now. He knits his brows together and watches her. "I have the utmost faith in the Inquisition, and in you."

"Lives are not saved simply by faith alone," she splutters, every care taken to maintain an even tone. She takes a steadying breath and flutters her lashes.

There is a dry laugh that escapes Cullen's lips. "You would be surprised how much faith can achieve." Memories of the tower flash through his mind's eye, of his prayers and scars. It hurts him to remember.

"I will not believe it until I see it." Glancing down at his hand on her sleeve, she moves to take it in hers and clasps it gently. His skin is warm. She breathes deeply, and doesn't notice the fidget of his feet.

She taps it before letting go, and runs her fingers through her hair. Lavellan shakes her head and turns away. "I don't know what will happen if this operation fails."

"I promise you it will not," Cullen affirms with unshaken confidence. She tries to believe him.


	18. Chapter 18

After eleven days of pushing her troops and horses as far as she could, the Inquisitor spots the stone walls of Skyhold beyond the mountain path. _Tarasyl'an Te'las_ was a welcome sight not only for her, but for everyone else. Finally, an opportunity to rest. 

Breaking into a gallop, she rides her Red Hart past the camps and to the bridge. The snow was beginning to melt, and the mud splattered under her steed’s hooves. Dashing across to the gatehouse, the portcullis had already been opened for their arrival.

The square is bustling with people. The surgeon was still caring for the numerous refugees that piled in day by day, and agents and soldiers wandered between their posts on various errands. She navigates her Hart through the crowd and to the stables. There she finds Blackwall who works tirelessly on his project.

“Oh, Inquisitor,” he grumbles, dropping his tools and approaching the stall reserved for her beast. “You’ve made short work of your return trip, I see.”

Kicking her leg over, she grunts a “yes” and waves to catch the attention of a nearby stable hand. Hoisting herself over the fence, she waves the young boy over.

He hurries over with wide brown eyes. “Please, if you wouldn’t mind, could you dress down my mount for me? I have urgent business.” Lavellan pulls a sovereign from her pocket and places it in his palm. Blackwall watches the exchange.

“Warden Blackwall, I will speak to you later,” she drawls. Without waiting for a reply, she sprints out of the stalls and up the stairs leading to the kitchen.

Word had been sent before their second day of travel for a cavalry to be assembled by the Spymaster under Cullen’s order. That same evening the soldiers had been dispatched and would be arriving at their destination within hours of the Inquisitor returning to Skyhold. She needed to be in the Rookery for when news arrived.

Bursting into the Main Hall, the two guards positioned by her throne are startled by her sudden appearance. They click their heels, quick to salute but are promptly ignored as Lavellan hurries to the stairwell. She passes Dorian’s empty chair, gives Grand Enchanter Fiona a brisk nod, then takes the next flight two-by-two.

“Inquisitor.” Behind her desk, Leliana sits with her ankle crossed over her thigh. Her greaves shine in the spring sun streaming in her window. In her hand she holds a scroll and there are papers strewn across the tabletop. “I have a letter here from the Knight-Lieutenant. She has made contact with your clan’s hunters and expects to engage with the bandits before tomorrow’s end.”

“ _Ma serannas_ ,” Lavellan pants, a faint wave of relief rolling off her shoulders. Her clan was in one piece, at this point With the Inquisition’s forces there they would be safe, but there was still the skirmish to brave.

“My agents are in Wycomme,” the Skymaster continues, her velveteen voice dripping from her tongue. “We will know who these bandits are one way or another. Your early arrival must be at the cost of your rest. Go, I will send for you when the next report arrives.”

“I must stay he-”

“Inquisitor, please,” she bard chuckles, pulling her hood back. “Josephine and I have kept things running smoothly in your absence. We can tame Skyhold for a few more hours while you recuperate.”

Lavellan nervously tugs at the sleeves of her long shirt and frowns. She won’t deny, she is exhausted. But she is too worried to sleep. She looks at Leliana with sad eyes.

Stroking a ginger lock behind her ear, Leliana pushes her seat back and stands. “Come,” she coos, “all will be well, Inquisitor. Now you must rest.” Her metal heels echo off the stone floor as she approaches the elf. “Josie will be less patient than I. Go.”

The Inquisitor sighs, nodding solemnly. “Thank you, Leliana,” she sighs, “for everything.”

Dragging her boots, Lavellan meanders back down the spiralling flights. She manages to avoid talking to anyone -- she puts particular effort into steering clear of Solas. There are new nobles gathered in the hall since she was here last; some she recognised, most she didn’t.

By the time she reaches her tower, her legs feel like jelly and her ears are ringing. The stained glass doors had been pulled shut and her hearth was lit. The room was warm and glowed becomingly. It was only mid-afternoon but her body felt as if it were the small hours of the morning.

Lavellan realises she left her pack strapped to her saddle but dismisses it. It’s nothing of immediate concern, instead turning to her attention to her made bed. She needs to sleep. Pulling off her sweaty layers, she strips down to her bare chest and finds a clean nightgown to wear. She discards her leg, propping the prosthetic against the bed's frame and crawls under the vermilion covers. She doesn’t bother with her wrappings or pants, and settles down into her pillows and closes her eyes. She falls asleep within minutes.


	19. Chapter 19

Loud banging on her door wakes Lavellan with a start. She gasps and her eyes shoot open before she sits herself up and looks about her dimly lit room. Startled, she forgets to respond before the next barrage of fists pommel her door.

“Inquisitor!” Josephine’s familiar accent bleeds through the wood before she knocks again. “There is news for you.”

Surely it must be regarding the results of the troops sent to Wycomme to aid her clan. “Coming!”

The sun was rising, but not enough light was flowing in to adequately illuminate her quarters, and her fire had mostly died out while she slept. Scrambling to get up, she changes her gown out for a loose tunic left hanging on her bedpost. Reaching over the mattress, she feels blindly for her leg. She knocks the lazurite limb over and it collides with the floor with a loud crack.

Josephine pushes the door open slightly and calls up the stairs. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine!” Lavellan plucks the prosthetic from the floor and finds her wrappings. She does a messy job of applying both, too concerned with getting onto her feet and making her way down to the War Room. “Is this about my clan?”

Quietly, Josephine makes her way up the flight and peers over the bannisters. Her hair is tied into a bun unlike its usual style and she has no makeup on, but she still exudes an air of dignity and professionality. “Yes. A carrier arrived for the Commander not long ago,” she explains while watching the Inquisitor don her leg. “Leliana has also received word. They are waiting for us in the War Room.”

The Inquisitor haphazardly assembles herself and stands. Forgetting to tie the loose ties hanging from her collar, she pulls on one of her thick coats and grabs her carved cane from beside her nightstand. “What hour is it?”

“I believe it’s not long before sixth chime.” Josephine must’ve been roused from her sleep too, because she too was in what could be assumed was her bedclothes. Luxurious yellow and orange detailed cotton pants hang loosely about her thighs, tucked into fine gold lace-up boots, and her usual navy vest was tied messily around her waist. “I’m sorry for waking you. We knew you’d want to know right away.”

Making her way down the steps, the Inquisitor treads carefully to avoid tripping over her feet in her haste. “Please don’t apologise,” she yawns. Josephine follows her down, dutifully closing each door carefully behind the pair.

The walk to the War Room in tense in the waking castle. The usual noble’s flooding the main hall were all asleep in their chambers, the messengers in their barracks. There’s a faint scent from the kitchens wafting through, but nothing discernable.

Their echoing footsteps come to a halt when they reach the sealed chambers. Heaving the massive door open, Lavellan files in with her Diplomat and is surprised to see both the Spymaster and Commander in their usual full uniforms. Candles bask the room in a warm glow, but a chilling draught finds its way in the open doorway.

“I’m sorry to wake you, Your Worship,” Cullen apologises while navigating around the world map lain across the central table. His eyes are exceptionally sunken this morning. “I thought you’d want to read the report yourself.” 

Coming to meet her as she enters, he passes her a rolled up message in his gloved hand and watches, waiting for her response. Josephine steps around them, taking up some of the documents piled over the map and begins flicking through.

Lavellan turns her attention to the carefully written letter in her hand.

_Commander Cullen,_

_Our troops made good time to Wycome and entered the valley in force. The Dalish were greatly surprised to see Inquisition soldiers coming to fight on their behalf, but when we broke the line of attacking bandits, the Dalish were quick enough to fight by our side.  
Our combined forces killed most of the bandits and drove the few survivors away. I doubt they will be coming back, though they were indeed well-armed.  
Duke Antoine of Wycome offered his gratitude for dealing with the bandits and gave the Inquisition his hospitality while we were near his city. He has promised to ensure that no further harm comes to the Dalish while they are near Wycome._

_Lieutenant Rozellene Chambreterre_

With a deep sigh of relief, the knots in her stomach release. The soldiers were successful, her clan was safe. Praise the Gods, both the Elven and the _Shelmen’s_ singular. Tears prickle her eyes and she covers her mouth with her palm. She clutches at her cane.

“ _Ma serannas_ ,” she croaks out, “thank you so, so much.” She balls her fist against her lips, the letter crumpling and takes a moment to collect herself.  
The Commander stands dumbly, watching her try not to overflow with emotions. He lifts a hand to offer some sort of comforting touch but feels watchful eyes on him and drops it back down. Instead he looks over his shoulder and is greeted by Leliana who stares at him impassively. A creak of her brow offers little reading of her expression.

“I am glad we have had good news to share with you, Lavellan,” Josephine emotes, her white teeth glinting in the candlelight.

The Inquisitor draws in a deep breath and works out the kinks of her surging emotions. “As am I, Josephine,” her voice threatens to break. “I- I have no words.”

“We can witness your gratitude without words, Inquisitor,” Leliana nods, unintentionally sounding uncaring in her statement. “I think we can all understand how important it is that this situation end with good results, no? Although I must inform you there is more business for us to discuss.” Pulling off her shaped gloves, she Spymaster lays them across her small section of the table and produces various different small scrolls from her pocket.

Lavellan clears her throat and combs her messy bed hair back from her face with her fingers. Glancing at Cullen, the pair return to their usual positions around the War Table: advisors facing the door, Inquisitor standing to meet them.

Regaining her composure, the Inquisitor props her cane against the table, places her hands onto the edge and leans forward. “What other news have you received?”

“My agents in and around Wycomme have some information on these so called bandits who seem to be such in only name.” Placing three scrolls before her, she reaches for three Nightingale markers piled beside Josephine. “Investigating some of the weapons found on the bodies, I have tracked their source.” She indicates a location in the central-Northern end of the map with a marker and one somewhat lower and to the West.

“The blades are made from a metal mined from here. The leather tanned here.” The Spymaster scans her eyes across the map which was slowly becoming more and more covered as the Inquisition’s operations spread across Southern Thedas.

Watching intently, Josephine taps her finger against her full lips. “I believe I can get into contact with these suppliers,” she mutters, “see what information they can offer us.” The Inquisitor nods.

Leliana hovers the last marker over the table, her mind working over the information she wants to communicate. “An agent also intercepted some Venatori orders on the Nevarran border which we are still fully decoding,” she grumbles, her tight lips suggesting frustration. “We have only identified mentions of “Dalish”, but I believe it may be relevant.”

“You believe Venatori involvement?” Cullen frowns. The last thing they needed was further cultist infestation within Thesodian politics. The whole social system was awkwardly balanced enough as is and it frustrated him to no end.

Leliana glowers at him from beneath her dark hood. “I believe it quite naïve to rule out such a thing, Commander.” The Ferelden lowers his brows, his patience thin and shoulders aching.

Lady Montilyet is quick to divert the sudden tension. “I suspect I will hear from the Duke of Wycomme within the day,” she interjects. She is pleased when everyone’s attention falls on her. “He will want to extend some form of thanks for our involvement.”

Lavellan cocks an eyebrow, still leaning over the table’s lip. “Would the Duke be behind this?” 

“I cannot rule it out,” the Diplomat admits with shaken confidence, “but he may also be influenced by a member of his court. Or entirely uninvolved.”

“He did not inform us of this bandit threat.” Leliana crosses her arms and swivels to face Josephine. “Their presence would surely serve as a threat to his trades and farmers.”

“They may be considered no match for the city’s militia, however,” Cullen adds, one hand pressed against the wood to steady himself inconspicuously.

“We’ve good relations with Wycomme and it’s people,” Lavellan sighs. “I would have thought that even if it did not affect the city directly, those who we traded with- well, I would hope they’d care.” She lifts her fingers to stifle a yawn and rubs at a crusted eye.

“Maybe the traders had expressed concerns?” Leliana’s tone makes the question sound as a definite statement. “I will see if there have been any exchanges.”

Josephine smiles. “Yes, I will inquire into any official concerns presented.” She takes one of the spare quills from the neat pile steadily spilling over the map and jots down some notes onto the back of a letter for her.

“Alright.” Lavellan takes a step back and her hands find their way to her hips. “I will adjourn this council and unless time-sensitive information arrives, we will resume at the third bell.”

“Understood.”

Leliana is the first to leave. Somehow she had collected up her letters and scrolls and notes without anyone batting an eyelash. It was not unusual, in fact it was entirely normal but it still unnerved her coworkers.

“I believe there is no point in returning to sleep now,” Josephine sighs. Lavellan giggles in agreement. “I will freshen up, but you can find me office if you need me throughout today, Inquisitor.”

“I will be sure to come past,” Lavellan follows her trajectory around the map with her eyes before swivelling to focus her keen gaze onto Commander Cullen. 

“Have you slept since we returned late yesterday?”

The man almost drops the documents he was gathering and freezes on the spot. He stares blankly at the words, swallows dryly and lifts his head. “I- I wanted to be sure I was around when the Knight-Lieutenant's message arrived.”

“You ought to sleep more, Commander,” Josephine scolds by the doorway, the massive piece shadowing her as the sun begins to shine into the room. “It would do wonders for your patience and those bags under your eyes. You will need a good night’s rest before the ball when we go.”

When Cullen sighs, it is long and drawn out. “Yes. Josephine,” he utters through gritted teeth, clutching his papers to him. She rolls her eyes and exits the room without another word.

Inquisitor Lavellan folds her arms across her chest, painfully turning on her heels to follow the warrior as he attempts to retreat to his office as quickly as he can. She does not intend to let him escape so easily. “Why do you insist on pushing yourself so hard?”

He stills at her question, his boot hesitating a moment before meeting the stone floor. He asks it himself sometimes. Without a moment’s thought he faces her poorly veiled expression of irritation. “Because this is important to you.” He says it as if it were obvious.

There is a melting feeling in her chest. It is something that forces her brows to contort and her mouth to fall slightly ajar. “You shouldn’t be doing it for me.”

“You are the Inquisitor,” he replies. Suddenly she sees just how tired he really is, not from a lack of rest but from life. There is more to him than she realises, and she knows this yet she does not. “This Inquisition will not function without you. We must do everything to help you, surely you can see that?” His temper is too short today.

Lavellan is confused by what she is hearing, and does not understand what to make of this. It was hard to understand these _shem_ systems of one above all, instead of one guiding all. Yes, it is what the Chantry preached but not what it did. It made things difficult at times because her understanding of her position often did not reflect that of those beneath her.

She finds herself wondering one thing. “Are you doing this for the Inquisition, or for me?”

“Honestly?” The Commander shrugs, his fur swallowing his jaw for a brief moment. “I’m not sure. But you are an important friend to me.” He watches her, expecting some sort of reaction but not sure what. However he catches himself before the moment drags on too long. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“ _Me melava halani_ ,” she calls to his back while reaching for her cane. “ _Emma hamin. Ma serannas. Ma enesal atisha._ I cannot thank you enough, Cullen. I will repay you.”

He pinches his brow, his headache swelling suddenly behind his eyes. “Your welcome,” he mutters, and exits the room without a further thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I will be sure to add at least a few more pieces to this series. Thanks for your time, and have a wonderful day/night.


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